Duality
by seriousish
Summary: What was Batman doing the day Superman returned?
1. War Is Declared

The Gotham Gentlemen's Club had been among the first thirteen buildings built in that city, right behind the church (which had since taken root as the mighty Gotham Cathedral). It had stood for over three hundred years, as unyielding and stubborn as Gotham's citizenry. A fire had destroyed the original club, so it had relocated to the top floors of a skyscraper in Downtown Gotham. Of course, the interior had been recreated so thoroughly that you couldn't tell the difference.

Harvey Dent didn't care for it. The innards, so stately and fastidious, didn't salve his anxiety as it did others. He felt like he didn't belong, that peculiar wanderlust of the heels that had afflicted him all through his college days. Bruce's ready smile eased that some what. They shook hands and, making light conversation, sat down in the club's parlor to play chess.

Harvey loved chess. Tennis and squash were more Bruce's speed, but although Harvey could hold his own on the court, he much preferred the intellectualism of board games. Black and white, night and day… no points or half-measures, just one side victorious and the other defeated. Clean, crisp simplicity. It put his mind in order after days of swimming through shades of gray and plea bargains as Gotham's youngest district attorney.

"You're sweating, Harv," Bruce said. His voice was lower than the chipper tone he had on the television, but still pretty light. Harvey noticed these things. "Considering you're going to beat me in seven moves, I don't see what the point of that is. Air conditioning broken?"

"In the Club?" Harvey moved his victory over Bruce that much closer. "If this place got hotter than sixty degrees, the mummies would combust."

"I promise I won't tell anyone you called the city fathers that."

They concluded their game and Bruce leaned back in his plush leather chair, hands steepled together in a very careful way. "No, seriously, what's wrong?"

Harvey crossed his legs and signaled for one of the waiting staff to bring him a drink. He'd only been in the Club for a few weeks, but he'd already run up a decent tab and gotten the waiting staff used to his preferences. Beer in the afternoon, martinis in the evening, vodka at night. Not that he drank that much, but this city forced odd hours upon him.

"It's this Penguin character."

Bruce tapped his fingers together. "If this is a roundabout way of bringing the conversation around to the Batman…"

"He and you are still too cryptofascist for my tastes."

"_Moi_?" Bruce cut in self-deprecatingly. "Strange thing to hear from a law and order candidate."

"And I would argue that Batman's vigilantism is chaos and anarchy personified, but we were on the subject of the Penguin."

Bruce gestured for him to continue as the waiter brought Harvey's drink. It was spewing smoke as if full of dry ice.

"One for you, sir?" the waiter asked Bruce.

"No thanks, I don't smoke. I will have my usual, though."

The waiter hustled off to get it. Ginger ale, Harvey knew. Bruce let everyone think it was champagne. It would be a shame to stain that playboy reputation by letting it be known he was a teetotaler.

"Death threats," Harvey said, the webbing between his thumb and forefinger resting neatly against the knot in his forehead.

Bruce was suitably impressed. "You are coming up in the world. Is it serious?"

"Probably just cranks. Jim – Commissioner Gordon, you probably haven't met – posted a squad car on my street. All it's managed to accomplish so far is worry Gilda. Did you know we don't get anything on caller ID?"

"Doesn't sound like cranks. Anything specific or just 'you will die'?"

"'If you don't back off such and such we'll do such and such'."

"Oh, that's lazy. I get rhyming couplets sometimes. Sonnets, even. A haiku, once."

"You run with a more genteel crowd." Harvey sipped his drinks. "They'll back off once they see I can't be intimidated. Guido Bertinelli will be in jail this time next week. I've got the jury in the palm of my hand."

When Bruce spoke, his voice was suddenly darker, colder, like it had to be filed against something metal to get out of his throat. "The mob's vindictive, Harv. What they can't corrupt, they'll kill."

"And what do _you_ know about the mob?" Harvey asked, an eyebrow raised.

Bruce sipped his ginger ale and said nothing, but there was a trace of midnight in his eyes that Harvey had never noticed there before.

* * *

Sarah Gordon was doing ten things at once, as always, talking on the phone while she tried to wash off the good china (which they'd used for James Jr.'s pizza party because James Sr. had been too busy to run to the store for paper plates) in time to dry off before their dinner guests arrived. Gordon pressed a quick kiss against her cheek, his moustache bristling against her skin, and untangled her from the phone cord. She muffled her mother's voice against her blouse and mouthed instructions to Gordon, who nodded and stepped clear of the walking disaster area. He pulled a pie pan of Pizza Bites from the oven, shook them out onto a plate, and carried it upwards to his daughter.

Barbara's friend Dinah was sitting on the bed, which was arm's reach from the desk Barbara was working at. She was painting her nails with a intensity that rivaled most Olympians. The bedroom put Gordon's own workspace, both at home and on the job, to shame. Everything neat and tucked away. She still had essays filed away from her freshman year at Gotham County High School.

"Hey, Babs, it's your dad," Dinah said, tapping Barbara on the shoulder. Barbara peeled her iPod out of her ears and smiled at him.

"How are the college applications coming along?" he asked as he offered up the snack. Dinah scooped hers up hungrily, Barbara with a bit more reserve.

"They're coming. Thanks for the snack."

"Thank your mother. And while you're at it, you mind watching James Jr. tonight?"

"I will, Mr. G," Dinah offered quickly. "Barbara has things and I need the money."

"There won't be any repeats of last time?" Gordon probed.

"Nah, I've learned my lesson. Sugar rushes and Power Rangers – not good bedfellows."

"This is why I'm the smart one," Barbara piped up.

"Doesn't matter, I'm prettier." Dinah threw her bare feet up on Barbara's shoulders and looked up at Gordon. "Blondes have more fun, don't we?"

"Good night, girls," Gordon said, beating a hasty retreat. "Don't stay up too late and no loud music."

He closed the door behind him. Barbara already had her iPod back in and a half-chewed Pizza Bite reduced to cud.

"Filling out college applications just ain't no fun without my college application mix tape blowing out the windows," Dinah mock-pouted, kicking one of Barbara's stuffed animals off the bed. When Barbara didn't respond, Dinah picked it up and put it back. "I'm bored."

Barbara didn't respond.

"Don't say anything if you want to experiment sexually with me."

Barbara bopped her head slightly as her song reached a chorus.

Dinah licked the back of her neck.

"Dinah!" Barbara cried, jumping out of her skin. "What was that?"

"I was bored."

"You lick people when you're bored?"

"They won't let me lick toads anymore. Stunts my growth." Dinah ran a hand through her hair. Then again, stringing it out. "We should dye our hair."

"Busy."

"Come on, we all know what college you're going to." Dinah sidled up to Barbara's desk. "Hudson University just outside city limits, so you and Batman can still have your late-night booty calls."

"Shut up!"

"He'll drive up to you in his Batmobile and say he needs your help on a case. But halfway there his car will conveniently break down and the two of you will have to huddle together for warmth."

"I will murder you," Barbara said warningly.

Dinah pantomimed zipping her lips. Then murmured "Batpenis."

"That's it!"

Barbara jumped her, easily batting aside Dinah's six-week self-defense course training to put her in a hammerlock, Dinah's face planted in the bed she was bent over.

"Black belt," Barbara bragged.

"Overachiever," Dinah taunted, muffled by the mattress her mouth was buried in.

Gordon walked in, not batting an eye, to pick up the plate of Pizza Bites. "Barbara, think of how it would reflect on little ol' me if my daughter killed someone. Dinah, at least pretend not to enjoy this." He waved the plate. "Your mother wants this back" He snatched the last Pizza Bite on it and popped it into his mouth as he left.

"Your dad's cool," Dinah said when Barbara let her up.

"Thanks."

"I'd bet he'd introduce you to Batman if you asked."

"Black belt."

"Shutting up now."

* * *

The kitchen of Wayne Manor was a cozy setting, suited to one person's cooking rather than the preparation of feasts. That was what caterers were for. Alfred had no pretensions of being a master chef, but he knew how to prepare enough meals that no one would accuse his ward of subsisting on bread alone. Although it left something to be desired in sophistication, his latest culinary conquest was rendered with the able assistance of Ms. Rachel Ray on the telly.

Alfred checked the pot. Chantill le devout was an acquired taste, but one that was unlikely to be acquired if allowed to simmer for too long. It was a truism that a watched pot never boiled, but it was also true that an improperly cooked soup could ruin an otherwise fantastic evening. And with the master's latest feminine safeguard against disquieting social rumors on her last nerve regarding mysterious absences and more mysterious secrets, Chantill le devout could make the difference between a happy couple and more tabloid scrutiny.

Alfred took his eye off the pot to scrub some of the finer china. The poor girl. Julie Eliza Madison. He'd had to remind Bruce of both middle and last name despite his master's steel-trap mind. If only the frivolities of high society could occupy and engage him the same way criminology did. He would be the most popular socialite since Sue Dibny married.

She might not love Bruce Wayne, but there was affection and friendship between them that could blossom into love with the slightest amount of effort or sacrifice. Julie was willing. Master Wayne, less so.

Back to the pot. It was simmering now, the top joyously bubbling. He stirred it with his ladle, took a sip. Perfection, if he did say so himself.

The phone rang, the old-fashioned kind that hung from the wall and had a cord at the bottom. Alfred picked it up. It was Master Wayne.

"Alfred, heat up the cave. I'm going out tonight."

_Of course._ "Master Wayne, I would be remiss not to remind you that you have obligations to stay in."

"In?" Master Wayne repeated.

"With Ms. Madison, I believe sir. You promised her that you had reserved the night specifically for her."

Master Wayne was already tuning out, his voice shedding pitch as it entered his customary growl. "Tell her I can't make it. Urgent business meeting."

"Your last three dates were precluded with the same lack of explanation. She is going to believe you're giving her the brush-off and she'll be right."

"I don't have time to debate relationship etiquette. Harvey Dent's in danger. Lives come first."

There was precious little conversation to be had after that.

"And what about your life, Bruce?" Alfred asked the dial tone, before returning to the soup.

Oh well, Chantill le devout could serve one as well as it did two.

* * *

The Iceberg Lounge was the newest and, paradoxically, hottest nightspot in Gotham. Amid a wave of trendier-than-thou nightclubs, many of which had sailed past bat-themes and into various post-meta motifs like supervillains, giant typewriters, and the like… the Iceberg Lounge was the old-time class not seen since Thomas Wayne's day. It was also frequented by Mafia heavy-hitters like Carmine Falcone's squabbling sons, Roland Desmond, Roman Sionis, and even (it was rumored) William Earle. The proprietor, Oswald Cobblepot, seemed like just another trust-fund kid with more than his fair share of ugly and a harmless eccentricity.

Batman had been in Gotham long enough to know that eccentricities were never harmless.

Case in point, the parrot squawking Batman's arrival to everyone in the upper tier of Cobblepot's operation.

Batman had neither time, nor the inclination to hide. Instead, he found a suitable ambush spot and waited. He didn't wait long.

"Paulina!" Cobblepot cried in his upper-crust whine of an accent, shocking through the door. "You were fed a mere thirty minutes prior, what need have you of…"

Batman lurched out of the shadows. Just enough for Cobblepot's eyes to detect the movement and look for the bogeyman in the dark. Oswald Cobblepot was a short, stout man with a protruding belly and facial features that did indeed remind one of nothing so much as a bird. Especially the hooked nose. He covered up for it well, the finest in Italian silk, the finest in everything. If you counted his top hat, he came up virtually to Batman's chin.

"See here, good man, I warn you this is a private establishment with a quite exclusive clientele!"

"You want we should bounce him?" asked one of the two hairy-knuckled thugs Cobblepot called "security." He and his mirror image came through the door, one at a time. They wouldn't have fit at the same time, even if they turned sideways. Steroid cases.

"Yeah, bounce him off the roof?"

"Grammar, gentlemen, you hurt my ears with your coarsening of the English language." Cobblepot swiveled to look at Batman. "I don't suppose I could interest you in a club membership? We have an excellent bar."

"Do I look like I drink?" Batman growled.

"You look like you could use one," Cobblepot replied.

"I think you're dirty. Maybe I'm right. Maybe I'm wrong. But since you opened your club, crime rates had been soaring."

Cobblepot grinned. "My dear detective, I think that's much more your problem than mine."

"I could make it your problem."

Batman's voice was so vehement that the thugs automatically went for their guns. He froze them with a sharp look. Then returned his attention to Cobblepot. "Harvey Dent is off-limits. If anything happens to him, I'll run you out of town. That's if I'm sure you weren't involved. If you _are_ involved…"

"Threaten threaten threaten, intimidate intimidate intimidate. Consider me suitably chastened. In the meantime, I have a business to run and I'm sure you have a purse snatcher to trip or a kitten to get out of a tree." Penguin rested his weight on his cane. "So unless you have anything besides innuendo to occupy me, I must bid you a not-so-fond _adieu_."

Batman grimaced and started for the window. The thugs closed rank in front of him, intent on body-checking him. He scrutinized them both.

"Archibald Cunning. Three arrests for assault and battery, two for armed robbery. And Bubba Barley, one arrest for aggravated sexual assault, two for drunk and disorderly conduct, another for assault and battery."

The one named Bubba Barley crossed his arms. "Mr. Cobblepot's lawyers squared that all away. We're free and clear."

"He is." Batman's eyes shifted from Cunning to Barley. "You, on the other hand, have an unpaid parking ticket."

The next thing Bubba Barley knew, he was on the ground with a painful ache on the side of his head.

"I trust you'll alert the authorities," Batman said to Cobblepot. "It wouldn't do for you to be associating with scofflaws."

"Just one more paycheck that won't get cashed." Cobblepot snapped his fingers and Cunning brought a fist down on Barley, then dragged him out of the room. "If there's nothing else?"

"For now." Batman looked closer at Cobblepot. "Don't forget to feed Paulina."

Cobblepot turned to look at his caged bird, then turned back to see his opponent had vanished.

Fantastic. He was being stalked by a sixth-grader who specialized in "Made You Look".

* * *

Batman prowled the rooftops, leaving the Batmobile behind for the night. Cobblepot's physiology had felt guilt, even if the man hadn't. He had played the innocent martyr card too hard and too smug, virtually guaranteeing there was a hit out on Dent… Harvey. The knowledge was a double-edged sword. If Batman hadn't heard about the hit until now, it meant that it wasn't open-market… Cobblepot had brought in a hitter specifically for Harvey. Which meant his best bet was to catch the assassin, which meant using Harvey as bait. Helluva way to spend a night.

Batman scaled a skyscraper to a layer of deco-industrial gargoyles, where he leapt off and took wing. The night was lonely, dark, deep. He fit right in.

* * *

Four uniformed police officers shadowed Commissioner Gordon. It had been a meteoric rise to power, but the way he had attacked corruption in the GCPD had endeared him to the public as a man that could be trusted. People felt safer with him as police commissioner. Not safe. But safer. The people occasionally gave him a nod or a wave as he walked down the street at dusk, walking alongside Harvey Dent.

"Really, James, protective custody?" Harvey pulled his coat just a little tighter around himself. "A little much, don't you think?"

"Only until Bertinelli is behind bars. You'll thank me later."

"I'll thank you now to _not_ scare Gilda out of her wits. She never wanted to come to Gotham in the first place. I received threats in Boston too. They never panned out."

Gordon had a .38 in his pocket and his thumb ran along the chambers as he walked, checking the bullet casings to make sure they were in place. He was scanning the face of every stranger they passed, watching for the predatory stare of a killer. It was the bad old days all over again.

"Gotham isn't like Boston. If there's one thing I hope, it's that you live long enough to learn that."

* * *

The car rounded the corner at thirty miles per hour, nice and easy. The engine ran clean, not making any aberrant sound to mark it different from the thousands of other cars on the road. The windows weren't tinted, but they were dark. Batman's binoculars fell on it, as they had a hundred other cars, but this was the only car whose license plate showed signs of being tampered with. It was too dark, even the inside lights dimmed. And the rear window was rolling down, the tail pipe was spewing exhaust as more fuel was injected into the engine…

It was already too late for a Batarang, so Bruce had to improvise. He quick-drew his grapple-gun from where it made its lair on his utility belt. A bursting hiss of compressed air and the familiar chemical tint of pressurized gas being freed. Just as a gun barrel poked out the cracked window, the head of Batman's de-cel line hit the car's front tire. It blew out and the mini-grappling hook punched out the hubcap.

The rest seemed to happen in slow motion. The car tilted to the side, as if making a turn, and ran through an awning before hitting a fire hydrant. Water gushed up from the cracked hydrant like blood from an open wound. The policemen mobbed Harvey, pulling him into an apartment for cover. Gunshots shattered the night, so much louder than either the tire blow-up or the crash. Gordon was hit, the shoulder, a bright flash of blood that colored in the dreary gray of the night.

Batman was in motion, a hunter's lunge that encompassed every motion, every muscle, every thought.

The policemen returned fire, Gordon bleeding from the arm, Harvey absurdly pushing a handkerchief against it, shouted calls into shoulder-mounted radios. And above it all rose the beating of Batman's heart as he reached the edge of the roof and leapt.

Not flight this time, but a swooping arc. His cape flared out, slowing his fall just enough to turn his landing to merely bone-jarring. His boots thudded down on the roof of the crashed car, left imprints. The impact blew out the windows. The far car door flew open and a man tumbled out, scared and with a gun in his hand. His red mask was growing redder, plastered to his scalp by a bleeding cut. This time the Batarang was right on time. It knocked the gun away like a bad dream. Batman rose out of his crouch.

The sun died.

* * *

"Jesus Christ," Harvey said. Suddenly everything all seemed so secondary. Gordon's injury, the attempt on his own line, everything. The Batman was real. The Batman was here.

* * *

It was dark. Jack looked back at the car. It was dark. But somehow Batman saw him and somehow the Batman's shadow fell over him, darker than dark, marking him like tar.

A shotgun blast turned the darkness to supernova. It poked a hole up through the car roof, but all it hit was the hem of Batman's cape. With fluid speed, Batman dropped to his knees and shoved a hand down into the hole. He rustled around there. His bicep bulged as he caught hold of the shooter. Jack heard something organic squelch inside the car. He ran, not even bothering to retrieve his gun.

Batman rose once more, blood dripping off his glove, and calmly walked off the car in pursuit.

* * *

Alfred had been trying to decide how much Chantill le devout to eat while it was fresh and how much to store in the refrigerator when the phone rang. Although hardly anyone called that he didn't turn away to the tender mercies of the answering machine, Alfred conscientiously checked the caller ID. Julie Madison. Oh, _bugger_.

He picked up the phone. "Hello, this is the Wayne residence. Alfred Pennyworth is speaking."

"Alfred." Julie Madison greeted him sweetly before her voice turned into that of the harridan. "Put Bruce on the line."

"I'm afraid Mr. Wayne is detained. An unforeseeable business affair. He simply had to deal with it personally."

* * *

The alleys and shortcuts of the Gotham Bowery were legion. They formed a modern-day labyrinth, at which Jack was an old hand. The maze stretched for miles, and if you were good you could navigate the rotting warehouses and disease-ridden shanty towns to emerge well clear of any pursuit. Jack was good. He had grown up in the Bowery, or at least spent enough time as a kid there that it had felt like it.

The details were fuzzy.

He heard the Batman clambering over the rooftops overhead, neatly sidestepping the many dead-ends of the Bowery. Empty pigeon coops, their wire covering gnawed through by the omnipresent rats, were kicked aside. TV aerials were ducked between. Loose bricks and shingles were dislodged as the Batman jumped and landed. All the stories of how the Batman was as quiet as a fucking ghost and now he was making all this racket? The sadistic maniac must've wanted to scare him. Jack wasn't afraid of anyone.

He ducked down a sidestreet, through a backalley, elbowed through a group of sailors taking a smoke break. They cursed after him, but he was too fast for them. Fast Jack, quick as the devil. Slow down and you die. Words to live by. Climbed a fence… CLANG! The Bat, landing with a thud on the neighboring building. Jack slipped through a loose board in a wooden fence. Shit! Main street. Graffiti stained the boarded-up corpses of old gentrification attempts and the occasional car flew down the streets at a hundred miles per hour. Carjacked, taken for a ride, or just greasy punks with too much money and too little sense. Jack ran the street, nearly got run over for his trouble, and hit the other end. He wiggled through the boards that covered broken window and into an appliance shop. The smell was god-awful and every step crunched hypodermics. But the Bat would never…

Black gloves whipped into the very hole he'd entered through, ripping the wooden boards loose. Jack cursed and ran for the backdoor. Behind him, there was another horrible crash as the holed window broke all the way open. Then, rising like a specter over the sound of his own racing heartbeat, the crunch of boots on broken glass and discarded needles. The fire door! He shoved his way through it and the alarm blared for a moment before short-circuiting. He was out and…

A mugger stepped in front of him, grin wide and yellow. He had a gun.

"The wallet."

Jack's heart was beating so hard it hurt. There wasn't enough air in the whole world to fill his lungs. And he just didn't care anymore. He batted the gun aside and swung fast, swung true, with his home protection… a screwdriver. It hit the shirt, hit the skin, hit the flesh. Sunk in to the heart. Never had the kill been so immediate, so visceral. He could see the anguish, the relief, the hatred, the fear, the _entirety_ of death in the man's eyes as he died. Jack pulled the screwdriver loose and a spurt of blood lanced across his face. It felt hot enough to scald, even through his hood.

Jack giggled. How was that for murder in hot blood?

* * *

Alfred could hear the exasperation in Julie's breath all the way over the phone lines. "If Bruce went to half the emergency business meetings he said he did, he would be the hardest-working man in Gotham."

* * *

Batman reached into the mugger's wound, quickly pinching an artery shut as he pulled a quick-pressure bandage from his utility belt. He'd already activated a med-alert homing device. Hopefully Gotham EMS would bother to send someone. He released the artery and pressed the bandage to the wound, watching as the high-tech adhesive went to work. The latest in first-aid technology, instantly releasing painkillers into the bloodstream and foam that sealed the hemorrhaging from within. It would have to do. Not even bothering to wipe the blood off his hands, he stood and ran after the assassin. An impossible task, locating one man in a sea of insane architecture and cast-off humanity. But all he could do was try.

* * *

Wherever Julie was, she was crying now. The sobs strained her voice. "You know, I hope Bruce is seeing someone else. At least that bitch can have his full attention now."

* * *

Jack rattled the door, but it stubbornly resisted him. Figured. The one thing that worked in the Bowery and it was a fucking lock. Through that door was the Ace Chemical Plant. The run-offs led straight to the river and from there he could reach the docks. Not even Batman could follow him there. If only he could get through this… fucking… lock…

With a scream of rage, Jack backed off and shot the lock off with his pilfered gun. It took two shots from his revolver, but finally the lock laid broken on the ground. He threw the door open and then threw himself inside.

Half a mile behind, Batman cocked his head. The sound of gunshots carried clearly, like lighting. Either it was his man or it was a new crime. Either way…

Scaling a wall, he ran the rooftops and their narrow gaps. Ahead, the light puffs of pollution from the chemical plant's smoke stacks marred the starscape like open wounds. He fired a line out to the top of one and swung out, over a woefully inadequate chainlink fence to land on the rooftop.

Below, Jack winced. Nearly pissed himself. He clattered up the staircase to the catwalk, where ruptured safety railings twisted like fangs around him. A fire or explosion or something. Chemical vats bracketed the catwalk on either side, each with an emergency release leading to the river. But they were all full! Bubbling with some poisonous swamp. A drug lab of some sort (Jack had heard someone was mixing LSD down in the Bowery) or just toxic waste no one had bothered to clean up (Ace never had been big about industrial safety since Lexcorp bought it). Jack didn't know and didn't care.

What he did care about, if he ever cared about anything since That Night (that one bad day that was almost… _almost_ as bad as this one), was the shatter of glass and the crackling of leather wings as Batman descended from a skylight. Impossibly, the Batman slowed in mid-air, landed with a hard impact. A tremor went through the catwalk, jostling Jack so much that his first shot went wild. The Batman rose, fragments of glass dropping off him, the aura of dust around him giving way. Jack's gun-hand shook. Why was his hand shaking?

"It's over," Batman said. His voice was the sound a headstone made when it cracked open.

"I've got the gun, don't I?" A trace of hysteria in his voice, growing exponentially.

"Dent's alive. You've failed. Tell me who you're working for." He took a step forward. The catwalk bobbed. "I can protect you."

"Protect me? You can't protect anyone. _Where were you when she died?_" Sweat now, dousing Jack's forehead, stinging his eyes. "I'll tell you what I'm being paid. Four thousand. Enough to buy a coffin. Two coffins, in fact. Life insurance only covered one."

* * *

The Batman had never cared for sob stories. You started to care, the enemy would use them to psyche you out. It was an obvious ploy, a plea for sympathy, a push off-balance. He drew his weapon.

* * *

Jack saw a Batarang gleaming in the man's hand. Yes, he was a man, that was clear now. The darkness that sheathed him was armor, not skin. The eyes that stared out of his pointed cowl were human… more or less.

"Put down the gun," the voice almost gentle now. Still rough. Still scrapping over cobblestones on its way out his throat, but compassionate.

"You can't make me!" Jack whined childishly. Then fired.

Even as his arm tensed, Batman was in motion. The Batarang arced to the side. Then the bullet struck the breastplate of his armor. A second shot, equally as accurate. Batman fumbled backwards, bullets embedded in his armor like two lead nipples. Jack laughed. He had done it! He had killed the Batman!

He laughed last, but he didn't laugh long. He had stepped forward as he fired, and so the Batarang that had once been flying towards his gun instead took him in the face. It ripped through the cloth of his red hood, cut through his cheeks, passing between his upper and lower jaw to embed itself in a pipe to Jack's left. Jack's laugh turned into a gurgling gibber of pain and rage and insanity. He spun, a whirling dervish trying to exorcise the pain that finally matched his inner agony.

Batman limped towards him, an arm over the bruised flesh where the bullets had been rebounded. Too late. Jack slipped in a puddle of his own blood. Like a clumsy dancer, he hit the safety railing and toppled over. Batman's arm jerked out, grabbing Jack by the foot. The weight of Jack's body pulled him against the railing, right at the bruise. Both men groaned in pain in the same instance, reminding them of each others' presence.

Jack looked up at the Batman.

Batman looked down at Jack.

"Give me your hand!" he said, lowering his.

Jack raised his gun.

Batman had no choice. He let him go.

And as Jack fell, he pulled the trigger. The gun clicked empty.

Jack's last thought, before he hit the toxic muck beneath him, was that it was funny as hell. All of it.

Batman watched as blood, and a few bubbles, marked the assassin's resting place. The mask, its mouth hole smiling with its cuts, floated to the surface. Prying both bullets loose of his armor, Batman tossed them in after Jack. Then made his way down off the catwalk. The mugger Jack had stabbed would still need help.

If he had stayed a little longer, he would've seen a nose bleached white and lips painted red parting the surface of the chemicals. They breathed in, smiled, and breathed out laughter that grew from a mild titter to a hyena's cruel cackle.

Wreathed in blood and strychnine, the Joker's head broke the surface.

And it was all… so… _funny_.

* * *

Bruce took his time in the shower. He felt as if the chemical atmosphere of the plant had immersed itself in his skin. Melded with his sweat to cover him with toxin. The assassin's death was unfortunate, but couldn't have been avoided. He was like Ra's in that regard. In the end, his evil had turned the only place it had left to go… inward.

Psychopaths were always self-destructive.

Finally satisfied with his cleanliness, Bruce emerged from the shower. A towel and a robe were waiting for him. He dried off and went to join Alfred aboveground.

"Miss Madison asks that you no longer request the pleasure of her company."

"Good for her." Bruce sat down, wincing at the pain in his ribs. The Kevlar had done its job admirably, much better than his first suit would've done, but chancing a hit to talk the assassin down had been a foolish risk. Faith in humanity… a sucker's bet. He'd be more cautious in the future.

Alfred pressed a bowl of reheated Chantill le devout in front of him, full of disdain for the soup if not for him.

"Anything else?" Bruce asked before he dug in.

"Yes Master Wayne, I Tivoed it for you." Alfred held up a remote and pressed play. The TV unfroze a baseball game.

"Thought you were more of a rugby man, Alfred," Bruce said. He had to keep his quipping millionaire playboy face up when he wasn't inside the comfort of his mask.

Alfred didn't say anything. He didn't have to. In due course, the camera had swam upward to show the source of a strange noise coming from the sky.

"Look, up in the sky!" the play-by-play sportscaster said.

"It's a bird," the color commentator said dismissively.

"It's a plane."

"Holy shit," the color commentator shouted. There were sounds of fumbling chaos in their sound booth. "It is a plane!"

The unidentified, almost meteoric shape had resolved into a plummeting airplane, trailing fire and smoke like a desperate parachute.

"Fear gas in the emergency oxygen?" Bruce asked. Crane had tried it before.

Then he was struck speechless as a red and blue speck took over. It interposed itself between plane and ground, growing larger and larger as it approached the ground. Finally touched down, red boots sinking an inch into the artificial turf. A moment later, the plane was set down with infinite care.

Bruce sat back in his seat and pushed the Chantill le devout away. He'd lost his appetite.

"Clark's back."


	2. Survivor

_One month earlier..._

* * *

Krypton was dead to begin with.

Clark felt sweat pushing out his pores, running down his flesh. He rotated through any number of clothes on the trip (being too naturally prudish to just pad around naked, although no one was there to see him). Sometimes jeans and flannel, sometimes simpler bodysuits -- not the full S-suit, but more like Fortress leisurewear. Today he was wearing Kryptonian robes, glowing with the colors of the House of El and its crest. He'd researched the crystals once more on the journey. The crest was more than just his family heritage. The House of El was first among the Great Houses of Krypton, incorporating tens of hundreds of lesser houses into its sanctity. Its symbol was one that represented hope for all Kryptonians.

Five years, in and out of cryo-sleep. He knew without looking that he hadn't aged a day, not physically at least, but he knew the same couldn't be said for his friends and adopted family. More than that, their absence felt like a growing hunger, a void which took up more and more of him. He missed having people. Not the adoration, not even the exhilaration of service, but just people to care for and care about. And to care for him in turn.

He set the scanners on automatic and put in the video of a Planet office party, six years past. It was creepy, he knew, but it kept him sane. Even if the doubt sprung up immediately afterward. He shouldn't have left, his dream was foolish, people were dying…

But Krypton… home… family…

No, nothing, hopes dashed, dreams dead, no life on Krypton, no life but him for light-years and him not even a real Kryptonian, an alien raised by humans who paid lip service to the teachings of his biological father.

He played the tape. The familiar images swam in front of him, the nostalgic sound cocooned him. He closed his eyes and let himself be transported to that day, before the distress beacon from Krypton was discovered. Lex Luthor was in prison, Lois and him were…

Were…

Okay, he liked to tell himself, they were okay. So what if they were having a very weird relationship behind his own back, Clark-as-Clark ignored and Clark-as-Superman worshipped, with Lois-as-Lois caught somewhere in the middle. He didn't like feeling sorry for himself, not when he was given such extraordinary gifts and such a happy life in comparison to so many… but loving someone who only loved half of you back was dang _weird_.

He opened his eyes. The scent of the birthday cake was gone beyond even his sterling memory's ability to recall. Jimmy had marshaled Clark's birthday party. He'd always been the youngest child of the Daily Planet family, eager to please, eager to keep the family together. Whether it was going to see a movie or grabbing a beer after work, anything was okay with him so long as he and his fellow employees were doing it together. It drove Perry nuts.

"That boy needs a girlfriend," he had commented more than once, willfully ignorant that Jimmy fancied himself married to his work.

Clark shut the video off, thinking for the millionth time of dashing the tape against a wall to put it forever out of mind, out of his misery. But then he might start sculpting again and as good as he'd gotten at the composition, having statues of his co-workers lying around the ship wasn't doing wonders for his mental health.

He missed cryo-sleep.

The VCR was beeping. The interface between Kryptonian and Earth technology had never been exactly smooth and Clark was about to jostle the wires when he noticed that--no, the beeping was coming from a console. He sped to the console so fast that he bled off some of his precious superpower reservoir.

Life!

He clicked for details. Not just bacteria or a mold or a fungus… something in the animal kingdom. Please, God, Rao, whoever's listening, don't let this be the family pet or some weird Sigourney Weaver cocoon thing…

The computer spat out more details. Kryptonian… he felt like he could weep. It had been worth it. His long exodus, the years spent away while his friends withered without him, it was all worth it!

There was someone to save.

He wiped a tear off his cheek (so he had started crying… he would leave this part out when he talked to Bruce next) and sat in the grav-chair. The seatbelts automatically locked him down. His fingers were fidgeting with excitement and he had to squeeze them into fists a few times before he could take hold of the controls. Even then, he immediately had to wipe the sweat off on his legs. It was like he'd taken a drug. All the doubt had just washed away. He realized, with a start, that he was smiling.

The ship (or giant Christmas tree ornament, as Ma had called it) dipped into a massive crevice in the arctic waste of Krypton, a vast gouge in the land. The ice around it had melted and frozen again almost instantaneously, resulting in strange formations that fooled the eye into thinking water was still flowing on this dead world. Without a thought to conserving power, he switched the lights on. Tentacles whipped out of the hull and concentrated searchlights on what he was searching for. It was a cave winking out the side of the crevice, a mere scab on the cliff face. Too small for the ship to approach. Clark went to get his spacesuit.

The bay doors opened and Clark was buffeted by the sensation of Kryptonite, the tingle but not the strength-sapping illness that he associated with it. Most of it had been scoured off the surface by the supernova's shockwave, but enough of it was left to start an instant headache behind his eyeballs. Before he had left the ship, Clark had given himself a dose of precious yellow sunlight from what was conserved in the solar cells. He had also dressed in a lead-lined spacesuit, with an air supply to supplement what he carried around in his bloodstream. He could hold his breath for hours on a good day, but he didn't want to chance it. Not when this stranger was also depending on him.

With a brief jolt of levitation he was across the gap between his hovering ship and the cave. It felt good to fly again, even for a moment. With a mournful sigh, he set down. The brittle ground cracked under his feet, like glass. He shined his flash-orb on it and found a thin layer of reddened ice coated the floor. Watching his step, he proceeded.

The cave was mostly natural, its contours like Earth caves, yet different in a thousand subtle ways it would take a geologist to point out. Despite his mental reminder to watch out, Clark found his pace quickening. Some of the crystals growing out of the walls weren't natural at all, but Kryptonian technology. He stroked one in passing. It remained cold and dead. Power conservation. Had to be.

"Hello?" he called in Kryptonese, probably butchering the pronunciation all to hell. He'd studied in on the way, and the AI had tested him, but there was nothing like being a native speaker.

The planet itself gave a melancholic rumble, shaking the cave. Clark grabbed hold of a crystal for support. This one lit up, projecting Kryptonese holograms too fast for him to process.

"Slow," he said, then remembered to speak in Kryptonese. The holograms dutifully slowed. He read through them. Although he found it hard to believe, there had been a domed city under the surface. Apparently, his race hadn't minded living without sunlight. After the catastrophe, they had had some time to recuperate… sending out the distress beacon which had only now reached Earth, preparing some sort of stasis chambers… actually slowing down time in much the same way he had been preserved as a babe during the long voyage between galaxies.

He took the crystal with him, using it as a map through the winding tunnels. Many of them had collapsed or been blocked by glaciers and it was only as a last resort that he unmasked to use heatvision on one. The distant Kryptonite blurred his vision until he had his helmet back on. Water dripped on his shoulders and domed helmet as he passed through the newly-formed opening. What he saw shook him like an earthquake.

A vast cavern, miles long and wide, dominated by a domed city. The massive glass… or was it diamond?... dome had once shone like a prism, but now had been stained with volcanic gasses and cracked in places. It was one of those cracks that Clark dropped through, to the city obscured inside.

He self-deprecatingly chided himself for thinking of Oz. The city within was as epic and majestic as the history holos had implied, but it did decidedly ring of the Emerald City… as seen through the filter of his own, much smaller Fortress. His flight ability lessened the fall, floated him down to a gentle landing. The crack of ice underfoot echoed through the necropolis, a gunshot putting the city out of its misery. What was truly dead until someone saw its corpse?

He checked the crystalline interface on his arm, the distortion that gauzed the flesh beneath it broadcasting a holographic map of his surroundings. He got his bearings on a few of the more oddly-shaped landmarks, then headed for the life sign. It was hard-going. He had to be more careful not to overexert himself and that meant maneuvering the cumbersome suit with only his baseline human strength. For the most part he could get through the crumbling city, the debris making it a bit of a climb. Only a few times did he have to call upon powers beyond the ken of mortal men to make a great leap or smash a barricade open.

The crystal interface vibrated. He looked at it and saw that the life sign was in close proximity to him… a collapsed building. Clark looked closer at the map. Rotating it, he saw that the life sign should be just under it. Perfect. He could spend all day digging it out and trying not to cause a cave-in. Or…

Clark circled the collapse, looking for… ah-ha! A large crack in the pavement, barely iced over. Clark smashed it in with his bootheel. His light revealed a subtle curvature to the depths, but he had no illusions of climbing back up unassisted. He unfurled one of the tiny climbing nylons from his belt and tied one end around a perfectly massive crystal. That kept him well and truly anchored as he rappelled down.

His feet crunched down with the now familiar frozen crunch-crack of snowy ice. Cold-spiders and the frozen goop of their webs infected the corridor he was in. They must have been thirsting after its meager warmth. He avoided them as much as possible, shaking them off when they tried to climb up his legs and tore his fingers through webs. The interface was buzzing steadily. Up ahead, he saw a door tinted with its locked status. He punched it open. No more waiting.

Clark stepped inside. It was as if he never left Earth. The interior was an almost exact replica of the Fortress. He closed his eyes and sought that far vista's details in his memory. Where would the living quarters be? He remembered and walked to them. The apertures were clogged with webbing he had to shatter, cold-spiders hissing at him as they fled.

He called out a booming greeting in Kryptonese and it echoed off the crystals. They vibrated in symphony, but were long-dead. He shut off the interface before it shook apart. The life sign should be close… but where? Then he looked up.

"Oh, Jesus."

The ice-spiders had cocooned them. He nearly burnt the web off the prism, but stopped himself. He'd do no good to anyone without oxygen. It was a family unit cryo-pod, a sphere of Kryptonian science with crystal tombs growing out of it. Outcroppings. He checked them as fast as he could rip the river of frozen webbing off. Dead. Dead. Dead, decayed, body rotted to bones and bones frozen to glass. Where was the survivor? There had to be one, at least one, please God, let there be one…

Her. She was the one. All of a sudden the enormity of it doubled within Clark, muscling flesh and bones aside in its gargantuan understanding.

He was no longer alone. Within the tomb… no, the womb of the cryo-pod there was a female form, her chest rising and falling with glacial slowness, waiting for rebirth. For him.

Clark took off a glove, feeling the suit constrict at the wrist to trap in his air. Fingers splayed, he set his palm against the gentle curvature of the cryo-pod's door. He could sense the torpid sludge of her blood in her veins, the millennial pulse of her heartbeat. Still alive, barely so, but clinging to it. Like him. Fighting to stay alive. Fighting a never-ending battle that was about to come to a long-deserved victory.

In the past, in Smallville, in Metropolis, on Earth, he had always imagined a fellow Kryptonian in human terms. Even with the realization that she (_she she she_) was a woman, that barely narrowed his options. Friend. Lover. Mother. Sister. Companion. Confidante. So many things she could be, but she was more, so much more. She was his salvation.

With a caress that would not be out of place in the restoration of some great work of art, he wiped the condensation from the fogged glass. He didn't recognize her features as family, despite the House of El symbol she wore on her robes. Her hair was as golden as his was ebon. There was a delicacy to her features, in contrast to the iron-hard strength in his, with the blue chill that permeated her increasing the porcelain quality about her. So fragile… yet beautiful as well. Young… he found it hard to guess her age… but definitely womanly. He stopped himself from comparing her to Lois. He would have no expectations of her. As long as she was alive, he would be content… happy… _overjoyed_ with having a companion in the universe.

He pulled his glove back on, wriggling his fingers to restore circulation. Although he had barely felt it, the cold here could equal the greatest of winters back on Earth. Earth… he could show her Earth, through the window of his ship as it grew from a marble to a whole world… Clark shook himself out of his reverie. _Don't count your chickens before they're hatched_, as his mother had always said.

He hurried to the control console. As he'd expected, all the other pods had failed… shut down to conserve power. A gruesome death, but only to him; they had felt nothing except the transition from one sleep to a far deeper one.

Quickly, he reviewed all the data. Kara Zor-El… of the House of El, the Zor vassal family. Not a full-blooded El, but a cousin of sorts. He'd have a hard time explaining that weird hegemony of fiefdoms and nobility that made her his responsibility, his family, but still not blood. Clark supposed it was too much to ask for that he come across his immediate family… he might as well find a childhood pet alive and well.

Okay. He felt he had a pretty good grasp on the awakening procedure… and if he didn't, hopefully the safety protocols would stop him. First things first. He sealed up the room, forcefields humming with energy as they blazed into existence, then pressurized it. Finally, he started up the process and backed away.

The crystal womb lit up, pulsating slightly. Not caring how much yellow-sun energy it used up, Clark strained his superhearing to detect the quickening of her pulse from weekly to daily to hourly. Although it wasn't possible for her to regain consciousness so soon, her eyes were blinking open in slow-motion. Ice-crystals broke off her eyelashes and Clark saw that her irises were the same unearthly shade of blue as his. The light in the crystal increased, thawing her. A million technologies that Clark could never grasp were bringing Kara back from the brink of artificially-induced death, pumping her full of new life. Her lips pinked, her skin blushed. The long blink continued, her eyes now wide open and looking to remain that way. Light reflected off her glass fingernails as her fingers curled. Cold. She must be so cold.

The glass door shrunk away to nothing, dislodging her, although the process seemed only half-done. Kara fell forward and Clark caught her, shocked at how anything still alive could be so cold. He ripped his gloves off and rubbed his hands over her bare arms, willing the heat into her. Again he was struck by her fragility, and at last the give of flesh after so long in self-imposed exile. A touch, a handshake, a hug…

"Cold," she said in Kryptonese, stuttering. Clark focused on the nearest metal and launched enough heatvision at it to turn it molten, not caring that it ruined his helmet. That he ripped off, rubbing his cheek against hers as he carried her next to the new heat source.

"Easy, easy." He could feel the warmth returning to her small body, _infusing_ it. "You're safe now."

"Where's my father? My mother?"

She had to ask that first. "They didn't make it."

She looked wildly about her, as if they could be hiding in the shadows or behind a crystal. "No. No, I saw them! They got into the cryo-pods before me, they made it."

He took her head gently, forcing her to look at him. "The cryo-pods were never meant for long-term use. When they began to run low on power, the computer cut life support one by one. You're the last."

"You're lying!" She shoved him off her weakly. Not hard enough to truly dislodge him, but he let go of her anyway. "My father programmed the chamber. There was enough power to last for years!"

"It's been years. Decades, in fact. I don't know how long for sure. With the distance I've traveled, time gets a little…" He trailed off. She wouldn't be interested. "The chamber was programmed to preserve you the longest. Your father succeeded. He wanted you to live."

Shakily, she tried to get to her feet. She slipped and again Clark caught her, slowly helping her up and supporting her on his shoulder. She wrapped an arm around him, accepting his help. "And who are you?"

"Cla—-Kal-El of the House of El, son of Jor-El."

"Kal-El…" She shook her head, trying to connect two disparate pieces that just refused to lock together. "I saw you just a day ago. You were an infant. Could it really have taken your growth in adulthood for Krypton to recover? Who were the fools that dallied about while my family died one by one?"

"There was no recovery," he told her. "We're the last."

"The last _what_? We can't be the last Kryptonians. Twenty minutes ago Krypton was the jewel of this galaxy!"

"It's closer to twenty years ago. And you were the only survivor my ship detected."

She shoved him off of her and grabbed hold of a crystal column. He circled around it to look at her. There were tears in her eyes, concealed by the veil of stringy hair that fell across her face. He brushed it out of her eyes.

"You… have a ship," she said haltingly. "You're not from here. You speak our language like a yearling."

"My parents sent me to Earth when the end came. I was raised by the natives there."

Kara sniffled. "Earth? Sounds familiar…"

"It's a planet in the Milky Way galaxy, Sector 2814, Sol system."

"Jor-El always was a proponent of space exploration, but no one supported his dream." There was a grim, half-mad humor in her voice. "What a way to be proven right."

"We should get out of here," he said softly. "It's not safe."

"No. I suppose it isn't." She tapped her heart twice in ritualized greeting. "I'm Kara, by the way. I suppose it was rude of me not to introduce myself sooner."

"Here," he said, taking a crystal out of his suit. With an eye-dropper's worth of water, it grew into a quarantine chamber… a pressurized one. "Get in there and I'll carry you back to my ship."

"You'd have to be strong as a mother flame-bird to budge that thing," she said, clearly doubting his sanity.

He did more than budge it.

"There's a lot to explain."

* * *

"So, these humans," Kara started, once Clark had explained most everything he could think of to her and shown her one of the videotapes, "they worship you."

"Some of them do. I try not to encourage it." He finished removing his spacesuit and put it in the bin, glad to be out of its stuffiness and down to his jeans and T-shirt again. Kara boggled a little at his wardrobe, but said nothing. "Mostly, they look at me… I don't rightly know. Something like a friend."

"A messiah." She was paging through some of his mementos… a Metropolis snowglobe with a little flying Superman dangling from the top, a Superman bobble-head, random other trinkets Ma had parked to make the trip easier. "You inspire a religious fervor in them and hope to lead them towards Kryptonian rationality." She nodded stiffly, still trying to contain her emotions. "A worthy goal."

"Well, I wouldn't put it quite like that. I…" Almost idly he ticked the bobble-head with his finger, watching it shake. "I try to provide an example to them. A positive one."

"Like a role-model."

"Exactly."

"And you want my help."

That brought him up short. He hadn't even begun to consider what to do with her when he got back to Earth. Five years and he had never thought that far ahead… except the possibility that maybe there was survivors, plural. Survivors who were trying to rebuild Krypton, survivors who asked him to stay and he accepted. He was never sure if those dreams were nightmares or not.

"I want you to live. Be happy. If that's as a superhero or as a college student, I don't care. Well, obviously I care, but… as long as you're happy… alive…"

She worked her jaw. "I could _teach_ at one of your Earth colleges."

"Yes, but you'd look like a student."

"So there's ageism in your adopted society." She jumped up onto a console, crossed her legs. "The judgment of worth based on relative youth or old age. Are there any other prejudices on your world?"

Clark crossed his arms a bit snidely. "Oh, we've got just about all of them. It's why they need a role model."

"But you were raised by them. What makes you worthy to teach?"

"I had a very good upbringing, compared to many. And Jor-El's teachings have also been of use."

"I thought Jor-El died." There she fought hard to keep the emotion out of her voice.

"He did. But he provided a representation of himself in memory crystals to guide me. The crystals showed me how to build this ship, for instance."

The interface vibrated. He took it off and set it down on a counter. "That would be the secondary scan. It's official. We're the last."

"Yay us," Kara said ruefully. "What should we order for the party?"

Clark was already seated at the controls. "Try not to think about it."

"That's easy for you to say." She leaped down from the console and stalked behind him. "You never even knew Krypton. For eighteen years, all I've known of life has been my friends and family here. And now they're all gone."

"You've still got me."

"Hardly seems a fair trade," she remarked caustically.

He swiveled in his chair to face her. "As much as I try to do to rectify this, life isn't fair. You've been given a chance no one else has. Now, you can waste it on useless bitterness or you can try to forge a new life on Earth. I can't promise it'll be any better than the old one, but it will be life. That's all any of us are offered."

She looked close to tears. He stood, cupping her chin so she looked up into his eyes. "Your father wanted you to live. If not for yourself, do it for him. And me."

"Was it really so hard? Being alone on a planet full of people who adored you?"

He thought of Pa, his mortality all too plain when it was engraved on his headstone. He thought of Lois, enamored with an alter-ego he'd constructed instead of the man he'd been born. He thought of Perry and Jimmy and Bruce, all the friends he couldn't get too close to, couldn't show more to than fractions of himself. The cape or the glasses, never both. He was a fractured man, and yet here was one girl who could see all of him. It made a world of difference.

"You'd be surprised," he said, and turned back to plot a course away from the grave that was Krypton.

* * *

It only took her a day to subdue her feelings about Krypton. Clark was a little disturbed by that. For about twelve hours she was inconsolable. Constant crying fits and sullen silences. She only snapped out of it to ask him questions, which he tried to draw out into conversations. Kara was naturally extroverted, so it wasn't hard. She told him so much of Krypton, the little things you couldn't learn as a holographic tourist… the warrens where she played, the friends she bonded with, the pets she had. He held her hand more than once, as much for his benefit as hers. With each day her grip was a little surer. He dressed her in his Earth clothes, to get her used to them. She liked jeans.

He began exposing her to short intervals of yellow sunlight. Not enough to bring her up to full power, but just enough to get her used to her powers. Flying came first. It was a shame that she had to learn it in such a cramped environment, but from her open facial expression it was obvious she wouldn't have wanted to wait. She greeted each morning's exposure with almost narcotic glee. Clark suspected that was more psychological than physiological. After being powerless so long, to become a demigod… no wonder she would find it intoxicating. Just another thing he would have to temper if she were to ever have a normal… if she were ever to have a happy life on Earth.

"What are humans like?" Kara asked, floating around the ceiling. She still hadn't gotten the hang of self-propulsion, so she pulled herself along the roof, practicing short leaps to the wall or ground.

"Even they can't agree on that," Clark said, adjusting their course. Thanks to the wormhole generator at the Fortress of Solitude and the one he'd opened up on Krypton, the return trip would take only a few weeks instead of years. He stood from his seat and cracked his neck. "Good."

"Good?" Kara leapt off the wall and cartwheeled through the air, flailing as she tried to stabilize herself. "If they're so good, why do they need you?"

"Most of them aren't good all the time." Clark ran a hand through his hair. "Or bad all the time. It's complicated… and not a particularly fair question."

"Only because you don't like the answer," Kara laughed, taking a running leap off the ceiling. She touched base on the floor and smoothly flew through the air until she tapped the opposite wall. "Are they truly the equal of a Kryptonian, as you said?"

"In some ways. In others they are superior."

"Come on!" Kara said, dismissively waving a hand before smacking it against the wall to propel herself again. "More or less, are they inferior?"

"They're less developed than us," Clark admitted as Kara streamed overhead.

"You mean less evolved."

Clark grabbed her around the waist and tugged her lower. With a few motions he shaped her outline to be more aerodynamic, moving her arms in front of her. Each finger he curled down into a fist. "That's dangerous thinking. Zod's thinking."

"You've heard of Zod?"

"We met in passing," Clark grimaced.

"What was he like?" Kara asked, her young voice full of curiosity and excitement.

"I'd really rather not talk about it."

Kara scowled. "Is he alive?"

"More or less. He's in the Phantom Zone, where he can't hurt anyone else."

"Acceptable. Give me a push." Clark did, watching her careen around a boulevard in the ship. "So, these humans… they're like… apes?"

"They're still a species. We're not," Clark said, exasperated. "Do the math."

Kara paused in a corner, hands against either wall to stop herself. "We're not a species?"

"Not viably. Although I suppose it's possible that we could interbreed with the humans, our genetic heritage passed on."

Spider-like, Kara crawled up the vaulted ceiling at the center of the spaceship. Her body was lost among the darkness of the crystalline dome, dark clothes shadowing her against the stars. Her mouth remained, a Cheshire cat's, wet red lips and tongue, white teeth so sharp.

"Aren't we viable? You and I?"

Her shirt… _Clark's shirt_… fluttered down and the starlight reflected off her pale breasts, just this side of visible. Clark caught it and looked away.

"Put that back on." Clark held the shirt up to her.

"I'm literally the last woman on Krypton. We must do our part to preserve our species." Her jeans fell a ways away. Her legs were the color of cream, gone frozen and without sunlight for far too long. And he felt so awfully warm. " I've seen the way you look at me. I doubt it will be unpleasant for either of us."

"There's someone else," Clark said simply.

"Ah." With a whoosh, she was back in her clothes. She'd been practicing superspeed. "Your mate?"

"…hopefully."

The ship _traveled_, faster and faster, and they went along for the ride. Kara picked up English fast, her mind every bit the equal of Clark's. He'd never put much stock in the legends of Kryptonian supergenius… he himself was too thick to pull off a third of the schemes Luthor doodled while half-asleep… but heightened intelligence was clearly one of his gifts and Kara was on his level. She grasped concepts almost as quickly as he doled them out, even going so far as to adopt a Midwestern accent similar to his own. She pitched it high and low, amplified it to a twang or shrunk it to a mere background rumble in an otherwise cosmopolitan urban voice. She was still flirting with him… playfully, girlishly, maybe without even realizing she was doing it…

He could let her down easy. And the company was nice, at any rate. So for both their goods, he didn't talk about Lois much.

"Jimmy, you'll like Jimmy!" he enthused as they swam through the air, propelling themselves by ultra-fast beating of their arms and legs; superstrong pushes and kicks against walls. It was inefficient compared to his own internal anti-gravity propulsion, but Kara seemed to enjoy it.

"Tell me about him," Kara said, as they passed each other. They linked arms, spun around each other, released, and flew off in opposite directions.

"Freckles! Red hair!"

"Red hair?"

On the next pass, Clark ran a hand through Kara's hair, making it blizzard out in the low-gravity (alright, so he'd cheated to let her fly better. So what?). "They don't have red hair on Krypton?"

"It's a genetically recessive trait. We read about it in the history crystals, but as a hair color it died out millennia ago."

"Oh." Clark said, bringing himself to a halt with only his will.

Kara watched him, stationary, as she continued to careen out of control.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. But on Earth, if there were no more redheads, people would start dyeing their hair red." He smiled. "Just to be contradictory."

Kara smiled too, although she didn't know what at… or why.

* * *

The weeks passed by in a flash and although Clark thought he should have been… bespelled by the thought of reuniting with friends and family. Instead, he remained captivated by this strange girl he had adopted as kin. Her customs, her way of thinking, it was all endlessly fascinating to him and he was sure she felt the same of him. They spent every waking moment together. Even when they didn't feel like talking, they stayed in each other's presence. It was one of those times, the ship quiet except for the grind of the crystals' expansion and flare of its power, that he caught her teary-eyed.

He didn't ask… there were too many answers… so he led her by the arm to the cockpit. A few simple gestures and the viewscreen magnified, transforming an ordinary blue marble into that familiar canvas of sea, land, and cloud that he had missed so much.

"What is that?" she asked, her eyes wide and blue.

"Home."

* * *

The presence lurked. It could not be described as a ship, for a vessel implied windows, a hull, passengers, not a harbinger of death that seemed far too unearthly to have been built out of simple mineral ore.

Nor could it be said to wait, for this implied a patience in contrast to a lack of patience. The presence was neither patient nor impatient; it simply was.

Then the presence stopped lurking. It watched, keenly, curiously, as an intruder entered its domain. A Kryptonian ship making its homecoming. The presence watched as someone left the ship. It watched as two people returned.

It watched as the ship departed.

Then it followed.

The son of Jor-El had taken the bait.


	3. The Girl Who Fell From Krypton

The death of Jonathan Kent had taken away most of Martha's will to live. And what was left was chipped away at by the absence of her son, dragging on year after year… not knowing if he was dead or alive, although what could hurt him she never knew, only had nightmares about. Sometimes she'd stay in bed all day, wondering what the point was of getting up. No little Clark, scampering about to wake her and bug her about a trip to the movie house or ferret some money out of her. No Jonathan, his unshaven cheeks bristling against her arm as he kissed her. Just her and the cows and the chickens.

Then he'd come and she, more than anyone else, had taken it as a bright shining beacon of hope. Superman, the papers called him. But she didn't need to wait for Clark to come home, taking off his glasses as an afterthought to the way he'd been standing up straight, to know it was her boy. For the first time in years she stopped living on microwave food and fixed them both a proper meal. She'd started setting Jonathan's place without thinking and she'd cried then too, all those tears she thought had worked their way out at the funeral. But they were still there, bitter, and Clark held her as she purged them. He was so big now, so tall and handsome. He'd met a girl.

Lois. Her name was Lois and to hear Clark tell it, she was the greatest girl that had ever lived. Brassy, bold, opinionated – beautiful, too, Clark got around to mentioning, as if it should be obvious. She breathed oxygen, had two lungs, and was beautiful.

It took him a few more weekends to stop the "What Lois Did Today" report. They weren't working as co-writers anymore, which was a shame. "Lois Lane and Clark Kent" made for a good byline in her Super-scrapbook. Then he stopped mentioning her altogether. And then they stopped talking altogether.

Except to tell her she was leaving.

This time she didn't let it hit her as hard. She went to town every day, to drink coffee at the Talon or watch a movie or pick up a book from the library or help out somewhere, anywhere. She tried to pretend it didn't mean anything when her car broke down and Ben Hubbard drove her to town, or when he drank coffee with her or held her hand at the scarier movies or recommended a library book or gravitated to her charities like a big lovesick puppy. But Jonathan had been gone a long time and he would've wanted her to be happy. And so Martha wasn't lonely anymore.

Then Clark returned. Clutching her shawl around her for warmth, feeling the paradoxical chill of the night air and the heat on her face from the melted, flaming slag of the crystal star, she drew closer. She had felt fear the first time, all those years ago, when she and Jonathan had been blessed with Clark. But not this time. This time, the heavens would hold no surprises.

And the heavens laughed and said _Yeah, right._

"Ma, this is Kara," Clark said, holding her hand as they hovered out of the wreckage. "She's my cousin. She's going to be living here from now on."

* * *

"_This world smells funny,_" Kara said. She paused, then scraped at the earth with her foot. "_Is that _dirt_?_"

"_Just give it a chance. There's a lot to like. Starting with my mom's cooking._"

"_Your mother is Lara. These Earth clothes are insufficient to keep my warmth about me. This area's atmosphere manufacturers must be malfunctioning._"

Clark put a hand on her shoulder. "Earth doesn't have atmosphere manufacturers or synthi-skin clothes or anything you're used to. You're just going to have to… rough it. And part of that is speaking in English so Ma can understand you."

Martha had stopped to look back at them. Kara looked at her. "How do you do, Mrs. Kent?" she asked, turning the language harsher and terser than necessary. It lacked the flowing eloquence of her home tongue.

"Very well, thank you," Martha said, far more shaken than she should be, and went inside.

"It's a start," Clark reasoned.

* * *

Martha reheated some chicken and had an apple pie in the oven before Clark could blink. They sat at the kitchen table and talked about Krypton and five years gone. Martha had sent the five years' worth of postcards to Lois and Jimmy and Bruce. Bruce knew Clark's secret, so he wouldn't have been fooled, but Clark had addressed five letters to him anyway. Birthday cards.

Kara looked like she was drowning in Clark's clothes. She both held them tightly around her and seemed repulsed by the Earth fibers, like a cold vegetarian wearing a fur coat. Clark reached out his hand to her and she took it quickly, abashed at her speed.

"She's all that's left, besides me. The last daughter of Krypton."

Kara's hand went limp in his.

"I was hoping she could stay here until… she's ready."

Martha gave Kara her friendliest smile and poured her some coffee. "She can stay as long as she likes. She is family, after all."

Kara shoved the coffee away. Clark caught it just as it cleared the table.

"_You're not my family!_"

"Kara!" Clark shouted, rising to his feet so fast he pushed his chair back.

"_I don't want to stay here! They're all human and they're so primitive and I want to help you!_"

Clark looked at her. She was breathing hard. Those deep, childish pre-sob breaths. Her face was screwed up with the effort of not crying. With that comforting Krypton calm, Clark turned to Martha.

"Mother, would you please excuse us a moment?"

"Of course, Clark."

She left them alone. Kara's hitched breathing calmed. Clark drew closer to her, heard her racing heart slow, then felt her throw her arms around him with strength she didn't know she had, knocking him back. She sobbed into his chest, and for the second time in that kitchen Clark sat down on the ground with the tears of someone he cared for flowing, gathering her upper body onto his crossed legs and rocking her gently, cooing Kryptonese into her ear. Her legs were sprawled across tiles of the linoleum floor and Clark picked them up, pulling her closer against him. Blonde hair tickled at his gullet as he rested his chin on her head.

"_I hate it here. Why do these people deserve you more than me? You're all I have left and now you're going to leave me too._"

"Only for a little while," he replied, insisting on English. "I've been gone a long time. I don't know how they'll react. It might not be safe."

"I can handle myself," Kara said fiercely, still clinging to him.

"No, you can't. Not yet. You don't have all your powers. Ma can help you with that. She went through exactly the same thing when I was developing my abilities."

"She doesn't like me," Kara said with teenager moroseness. "I can tell. She hates me because I took you away from her and she's going to be awful to me."

"She's Ma. She doesn't hate anyone."

"You swear?"

"I promise."

Kara sniffled and wiped her eyes on his sleeve. "And you'll come back, right? You won't just leave me here?"

"I come here every weekend. You'll never be alone, I promise."

"I don't know if I can go a week with these weird smells. I like the way you smell."

Clark gently detangled himself from Kara and brought them back to their feet. Kara was slow to break away from him. She'd stopped crying, aside from a few hitches in her breath. She wavered, not quite sure what to do, and he put an arm on either shoulder to steady her.

"Come with me. I want to show you something."

She grabbed hold of his hand as he walked out the backdoor. The screen door banged shut behind them. As soon as they were off the cold concrete porch, Kara floated. She hovered over the painful gravel trail, tethered to the earth by Clark. Clark made a mental note to buy her shoes. Hopefully, shoe-shopping cheering women up would prove a universal constant.

With his free hand, Clark threw open the barn doors. He tugged her down so she was once more touching the ground. Kara picked at stray straws with her toes as Clark opened up the storm cellar.

"This is the ship I came here in as a child," Clark said, running a hand over it.

"It looks… different," Kara said thoughtfully.

She reached out to touch its ovoid mass. As if the death of Krypton had caught up to it, even here, the ship was cold and dead. She drew her hand back. Clark had told her he'd always thought of Krypton as sterile, and it was, but it was also bright and warm and heavenly. Not like this.

"Jor-El showed me models of it. I never thought I'd actually see it built. He always was a bit of a dreamer…"

"Aren't we all?" Clark grinned, but it wasn't catching. He brought forth a neatly folded pile, blue and red and yellow. "Here. Take it."

Kara did, unfurling the suit until she saw a familiar raised crest.

"The House of El…" she repeated, breathless.

"Maybe you think I've turned my back on my heritage. But I haven't. I just choose to honor it in a different way than you would." He held the top of the suit up so that it covered her chest, modeling it on her. "And I was hoping one day… you could too."

* * *

Martha set the pie out on the windowsill and, as if attracted by the sweet scent, Clark returned. He propped up both arms on the windowsill and leaned his head in, taking a big whiff of the pie.

"Kara… needs to be alone for a little while. Please tell me that everything's been fine with you," he said, genuinely exasperated.

"Can't complain. Had to hire a few farmhands to tend the fields… bank nearly foreclosed on us before a nice man bailed me out…"

"Nice man?" Clark repeated.

"Yes. He wrote a check, told me to keep the farm running… I think he was a friend of yours."

Clark's blood ran cold. "Did he leave a name?"

"No…" Martha opened up a drawer and dug around under some old bent spoons. "Just this letter."

Clark opened it the moment she handed it to him and was relieved, but not wholly surprised, to see what was written inside.

_Come see me now. Sincerely, Bruce Wayne._

"When did you get this?" Clark asked, turning it over in his hands to search for some ninja disappearing ink or another of Bruce's little tricks, but there was none.

"Three years back."

Clark shrugged. The bossily-written _now_ was just Bruce's trademarked control freak at the forefront. Clark was just glad he wasn't in a relationship with him. Now that would be hell.

"It held this long. It'll wait a while longer. Anything else?"

He said it casually, but Martha had been skirting around a subject all night. There was something important she hadn't touched on. The Daily Planet and its staff were fine, Metropolis was more or less alright… what could be wrong?"

"Ma?"

Martha signed and dug into the drawer again, this time coming up with an old video tape. She blew the dust off it. "I knew you'd have to see it for yourself."

Clark took it from her and, after a quick X-ray/superhearing check on Kara (fine, if mopey), he pushed it into the VCR and pressed play.

The TV went from blue to an old football game to static to what had been taped latest. It was a news conference broadcast on the six o'clock news. Taping had started halfway in, but it only took a moment for Clark to get the gist of it.

Behind the podium, armored in an Armani suit, long tailored sleeves that ended in black leather gloves, a man read a statement as precisely as any orator ever could. His head was bare, as hairless as stone, and his eyes were friendlily blunted by spectacles, but still as fiercely intelligent and malignant as ever. At his side was a muscular man in a dark suit, with blond hair and gray eyes. Clark looked down at the teletype, as if it would tell him that what he was seeing was some kind of cruel hoax.

_SEC approves Yoyodyne buy-out… Lex Luthor new CEO… a Luthor at the head of former Luthorcorp for the first time in over a decade…_

Memories of the horrors Lex had committed when he was in control of Luthorcorp, before his first conviction, flooded Clark's mind. More than a few of them had been aimed at exposing Clark's secret, before he'd left for Arctic. With Clark out of the picture, Lex's scheming mind had gone into overdrive and he'd burned out in scandal, stripped of his company and packed off to jail. That should have been the end of it, but Lex had quickly escaped and begun hatching new plots and land grabs. Superman had come onto the scene in time to curb the worst of them.

Lex orated about how his family had been the one to build Metropolis up from a small town into the city of tomorrow. Clark remembered. Jor-El had used Lex Luthor and the Luthor family to demonstrate the fallacy of social Darwinism. If not for the Luthors, Lex said, Metropolis would still be a podunk little town.

"I like podunk little towns," Clark said. He turned to Martha. "How'd he get out?"

"No one quite knows. He claimed to have a jailhouse Saul-to-Paul, but most folk with common sense thinks that's hogwash. But he must've convinced the parole board, because they let him out at time served."

"When was this?"

"A year after you left. The fact that you weren't there to speak against him didn't help."

Clark ground the heel of his hand into his forehead. Luthor had been tried, sentenced, and convicted to a double life sentence. He'd thought the case was closed. Obviously, he was wrong.

"Then he started a venture capitalist fund… managed to come up with such wondrous technology… then two years ago he bought back Luthorcorp."

"Yoyodyne." Clark kept rubbing his temples. "They changed the name to Yoyodyne because they didn't want to be associated with him anymore."

"They were going through financial difficulties. He bailed them out… built an empire out of them. The first billionaire with a parole officer. He's a philanthropist now, or so he claims."

"Do you believe him?" Clark said, looking up at her.

Martha shut the VCR off. "I don't rightly know. He's helped a lot of people, but I always got the impression that he was trying to… one-up you. Like he wants to beat you at your own game. Now that you're back…" She reached down and touched her shoulder. Clark was bent over almost double, staring at his shoes. "I know you were friends once. But as much as you like to believe in redemption, some things can't be forgiven."

"Like leaving for five years?" Clark asked, looking up. His blue eyes were as bare as she'd ever seen them. "Like that?"

* * *

Kara checked with her X-ray vision to make sure Clark wasn't watching. No, he was being comforted by the crone. Hardly Kryptonian of him. She slipped her hand into the landing gear compartment and found the black crystal right where her father had left it. She stuffed it into her pocket for later. She would honor her heritage. But not in the way Kal-El had in mind.


	4. Where Were You When Superman Returned?

_Damnit, damnit, damnit!_

Okay, I played that relatively cool, but damnit! _I'm not back ten minutes and the first thing I do is embarrass Lois. Stupid plane. I was hoping to get my bearings in Metropolis… heck, the _world_ before I made my return, but now Superman and Clark Kent are back on the same day. Hopefully none of my highly-trained colleagues at the Planet will notice that._

Well, I'm not getting any "Clarking" done like this. Might as well burn off some steam with an old-fashioned around-the-world. 

Clark touched down on Everest, red boots carefully avoiding the flags planted there. There'd been a dozen new ones planted since he'd last been there. In the quiet and solitude of the Himalayas, he strained his hearing to the maximum. Soon, he had a destination. With a sonic boom, he was off to save lives.

_It is good to be back, though._

* * *

Barbara came out of the dojo late in the afternoon. The sun was still up in the sky, but it was eying its watch. Still in her gi, soaked with sweat, she lugged her regular clothes behind her in a denim tote bag. She didn't get five steps before someone wolf-whistled. Wolf-whistles. You didn't get that too often these days. At least someone had an appreciation for the classics.

"So, tell me something," he said from the driver's seat of his car, him being of the handsome but scruffy variety that could come out of the alleys and into the light without bursting into flame, his car being an old clunker of a Gotham Motors Model 77, "do those legs go all the way up?"

She walked a ways, looking around. The neighborhood was virtually deserted, except for some bums and next-to-bums, who could only be here to score drugs.

"Don't you ever lay off?"

"When there's girls like you around, why would I?"

She walked past his car. He took it out of park and idled after her, knocking on the gas a few times to catch up to her.

"Come on, get in the car."

"I bet you say that to all the girls."

"Nope, just you… tonight, that is."

Just by looking at him, you could tell he was a couple years younger than her and she could tell he was trouble. She put on a show of walking to the light, red, and sharing a street corner with the beast of a sedan before cutting across the car and opening up the passenger door. He'd already cleared a seat for her out of the detritus of old fast food containers and older magazines.

"Admit it." Dick smiled cockily, "you were always going to get in the car."

She smiled at him. "This is me being impulsive," she said before giving him a quick kiss. "Dad'll be expecting me home by ten. That gives us four hours."

"Spare me the itinerary, I've got us penciled in for a night on the town." The light turned green and Dick stomped on the gas. "Dinner and a show. Snacks are in the glovebox. I'll carry what I can, but you'd better have room for some beers in that purse of yours."

"I don't drink."

"You do tonight," he said, grinning wolfishly.

At the next light, she got out, watched his face fall, then got into the backseat. The light turned green, Dick put pedal to metal, and Barbara started changing from her gi into nightclub clothes… a far cry from the conservative suit Gordon had seen her leave the house in, also stuffed into her tote bag. Only the fact that they were getting on the highway kept Dick's eyes off the rear-view mirror. When he did catch a chance to look at it, Barbara was half-dressed and holding a girlie mag open in the reflection. The centerfold was a golden-skinned model with a mane of red hair and the biggest, greenest eyes in the world.

"So, is balloon bod here your type?"

"Baby, you're my type, you know that."

Barbara whacked him with the magazine and climbed into the front seat. As it turned out, half-dressed was all-dressed. Dick approved. She wore a backless halterneck dress with a skirt that left her thighs mostly bare. She couldn't really sit without it riding up, so she kept her legs crossed. That was fine with him too.

"It says here that Miss Anders likes long walks on the beach, star-gazing, flying... hey, there's a smudge… flying _kites_."

"Skip to the articles, that's what I'm really interested in."

* * *

Two hundred dollars for a week's work. Jason had seen fatter money rolls from drug mules and the big pimps who came by to rattle at the girls. But this was his. The Jason Todd Enrichment Fund. He must have ripped off every hubcap in the East End to make it. Two hundred bucks. Enough for a warm bed or a warm meal or a warm woman, maybe.

He was still thinking about what to do with all the money when they hit him. His legs wouldn't carry him, but his arms still obeyed. He held them up to ward off the next blow. It was no good. He felt the stickiness trickling down his scalp far more than the blow itself.

_Crowbar_, he thought as a hand picked the money roll out of his pocket. _My money…_

* * *

Leslie Tompkins had always reminded Jason of one of those old movie dames. Jimmy Stewart's mother, chiding him for his madcap antics between highballs. Except for the eyes. The eyes fit into her grandmother gig like mud in chlorinated water. They were a whore's eyes, tired and used up and looking at him was using more of her up. Her severe face, as if resenting him for robbing a little more of her, crinkled.

They were in free clinic, an exam room. Jason was sitting on the big bed wannabe thing. The mat was ripped up even below the kinked medical sheet that covered it. He didn't even mention the stain on the wall. Other then that, it was pretty okay. As far as hospitals went.

"Mild concussion, emphasis on the _concussion_, not the mild," Doc Tompkins diagnosed as she finished wrapping his forehead with a thick bandage. "You should know better than to take shortcuts down dark alleys."

"I thought Batman would protect me," Jason jibed.

He saw Holly outside through the wire-covered window in the door. He waved to her. She was his age. She turned tricks, but he thought she was still pretty cool for a hooker. Kinda cute; at least the johns said so.

"Sup, Holly," he said when she barged in. He jumped off the exam table as she hopped on. "What is it this time?"

"Gonorrhea. Can't fuck until it clears up. Gotta suck guys."

Jason made a sympathetic groan.

"Through condoms."

"_Ouch_."

"Tell me about it. I hate the taste of latex."

Doc Tompkins sighed wearily. Like air escaping a collapsed lung.

"What's the big idea? You can't catch sumthin if he's wearin' a rubber. Everyone knows that!"

"You tell her, Hol," Jason said, earning him a truly withering look from Tompkins.

"I'm sorry, Holly. I don't mean to judge you. But both of you should put some thought into your futures."

"Yeah, Doc," Jason said, slipping on his sunglasses. "Our future's so bright we gotta wear shades."

His sunglasses nearly covered up his black eye.

* * *

Dick's hands felt good on her back, slipped around her side like a pickpocket. Barbara eased into him as she watched the movie. A bit more sensitive and artsy then she would've pegged Dick for… maybe he was just masochistic. The frequency of his bathroom breaks seemed to rule out that possibility, but he always came back to her.

She'd met him three months ago, at a mixer that Dinah dragged her too. She'd told him she was a librarian, he'd made a joke about Lady Chatterley's Lover, and then he'd dazzled her with some college-level opinions on its themes. Reading comprehension… underrated in guys. When it turned out they went to the same school, it had taken her one afternoon to track him down during lunch period and tell him to ask her out already.

Next fall, she'd be going to Hudson University. Hudson U wasn't the best college she could go to, but it was close to her friends and family and Dick. She was making a life decision based on having a boy in her life. It felt great. Almost as good as the flat surfaces of Dick's fingernails brushing over her spine like an archaeologist excavating a fossil.

Pretty soon they were kissing, tasting flat cola and buttery popcorn. Barbara felt Dick's hand on the side of her body, just under the armpit so that his thumb could touch the outermost part of her breast if he reached. Pretty soon, she had pushed and prodded at his hand enough to convince him to slip his hand under her top.

* * *

Jason stuck around long enough for the free meal, so he was around when Holly finished getting pumped full of antibiotics. He was out the side of the clinic, smoking a cigarette he'd bummed off one of the nurse. That time of evening, the basketball court was abandoned. Its single basketball, face covered with penciling, was jammed up in the hoop for storage.

Jason was leaning against the chainlink fence that bracketed the court, trying not to think of his future like a child would try not to think about what was making noise in his closet. His cigarette glowed hard as he sucked on it, then flicked it off into the darkness of the street. The ember glow died down and Jason let go of the cigarette smoke slowly, letting it trail out between his lips like vomit.

Holly, who had approached him, kissed him on the cheek. Then on the lips, just to make a face at the taste of nicotine. _Health nut with an STD. High-larious._

"Thanks for sticking up for me," she said.

He didn't know he had. "No prob. Those do-gooder types… _man_."

"Tell me about it. Hey, you should see if my guy would take you on. He probably would. You've got a pretty mouth."

"Nah. I'm saving myself for rape."

"So where are you sleepin' tonight?"

_Stupid question._ Jason dragged his fingers over the chainlink fence, like they were claws and he could cut through it. "Not with you. Might catch something."

She swatted at him. Not hard enough to be a slap, but her long fingernails came away with some skin. "I wouldn't even suck you through rubber, scav. I wouldn't even suck you through leather." Holly's nose wrinkled. "Hey, you smell smoke?"

Jason turned to look out at the city. Pretty soon he saw the fire.

"Fuck!"

He took off at a run. Holly tried to follow as best she could in six-inch heels, but it wasn't until she slipped off her high heels and put on the sneakers from her hot pink purse that she was able to catch up to him. When she did, he was standing in front of the blaze. The firefighters were letting it burn, only using up precious water to keep the fire from spreading to other buildings.

The heat was so intense that Jason was sweating, even from across the street. Ashes fell like snowflakes. Holly caught one on her tongue.

"Guess Sal finally needed that insurance money," she opined.

Jason began kicking a streetlight so hard that the light shook.

"That fuck! That fat fuck! All my stuff was in there!" _All Mom's stuff. All I have left of her._ "I'll kill 'im!"

"G'wan. Ain't seen the cops round here for a few months. Maybe they miss us."

Jason wheeled on her. "Then what the fuck am I gonna do, huh? I'm not staying out after dark, not on your life, nuh-uh!"

"You could always try the Wonder Boys."

Jason snorted. "They're psychos."

"Maybe, but they got connections." Holly gave him a little tap on the chest. "Hey, I gotta get going. It's dark out and if I'm not where Selina can see me, she'll come looking for me, and if she finds me, she'll tan my hide."

Jason was already lost in thought. "Go on. I'm not holding you here."

Holly gave him a stupid wave and ran off. The Wonder Boys were psychos, sure, but he'd thrown in with worse. And besides, they were do-gooder types. How bad could they be?

* * *

Dick lent Barbara his letterman jacket… God knew where he had gotten it, since he definitely hadn't transferred in long enough ago to earn it the traditional way… and they walked through the glitzy lights of Cinema Street without fear. It was well-lit, after all, with two or three cops walking the beat, one on horseback. Movie houses, theaters, and one squalid porno house that proudly proclaimed its survival of the last urban renewal with an XXX neon sign.

Her nearly bare legs were prickled with the cold, actually making her envy those ratty old jeans of his with the much-abused knees. His black tee was a little frayed at the collar, some flesh shining through, but it emphasized his athletic physique well. He unwrapped a lollipop and was about to bite into it when he offered it to Barbara, who declined. He put it in his mouth and quirked the stick to the side of his mouth like Chow Yun-Fat with a toothpick. God. He really could not pull off tough guy.

"So, where to now?" she asked him.

"Someplace warm." He got the car door for her.

* * *

Tim Drake adjusted his glasses. Surely, he needed a stronger prescription. Someone had edited the Batman Wikipedia page, previously a carbon copy of the meticulously sourced and researched Batwiki page, to refer to Batman as a "dangerous vigilante." Batman was a hero. _Duh._

"Tim?" It was New Mom, doing her Mrs. Cleaver impression. She was outside his door, probably eye-level with his Keep Out poster: Superman with a talk to the hand pose. Back in his Superman phase. Back before Real Mom died. Back when the world made sense.

"Yeah Dana?" She probably thought he was looking at porn. Let her.

"Supper's ready."

Tim considered saying he wasn't hungry, but he was. And that excuse was wearing thin anyway. "I'll be right down."

Dana left him alone.

Tim uploaded to Chloe his pictures of the Batarang he'd found. She'd IMed him to suggest he eBay it. Yeah, right. Not only was it the best keepsake ever, but a villain could trace its origins to find out who Batman was. Tim should know. It was what he was doing. Upload complete, Tim logged off and went to see what was for dinner.

* * *

Batman counted seconds.

He solved mysteries, saved lives, stopped crimes, and counted seconds.

Six hours, forty-one minutes, and twenty seconds since Superman had gone public and he still hadn't reported in.

Unacceptable.

A scream brought Batman back to the here and now. He looked below the corbel he was crouched on to consider Mickey Rolls, all-purpose scumbag, dangling by his toes twenty stories up.

"Don't do this, please man, don't do this! Someone help me!"

"You could always call for Superman," Batman suggested.

"Help! Superman!"

Batman pulled him up and then knocked him out, finally tying him securely to the corbel. That hadn't worked. He would have to find someone else. At this time of night, the East End was a nest of drug dealers and pimps. Even more so than usual. He would find easy prey there.

Or not.

* * *

Barbara was up way past her bedtime and she rather liked it.

She was pressed up against Dick's side as they sat on the hood of his car, looking up at the stars, and she rather liked that too. There was no pollution or toxic gunk to obscure the view, not this far out. They were practically in Slaughter Swamp, they had driven so far. But the view was spectacular and it was no surprise how Dick had found it. A circus tent was erected a mile back.

And Dick brushed her hair out of the way to kiss her behind the ear and she liked that most of all.

One of the stars moved. A red one.

"Look. Up in the sky," Barbara said.

* * *

Tim was practicing with the Batarang. He had to be careful not to let it get away from him. He wasn't stupid enough to practice in the open air, but the greenhouse's walls weren't as sturdy as they could be. He wore gloves to keep from slicing his fingers up on the scallops (Batman must have upgraded, because Tim could see how this hunk of black metal and plastic was way more advanced than the old "throwing bats"), but the Batarang still seemed to have a mind of its own. Then a strong breeze rattled the windows so hard it was almost as if a shock wave had hit them.

"It's a bird," Tim said dismissively, and threw the Batarang again.

* * *

Jason went into the encampment under East Bridge, only mildly surprised to find bald heads (there was even a barber with an electric razor ready to shave), weapons, and bats. Hanging from the underside of the bridge like a living ceiling. None of the flying rats better shit on him, he knew that much.

A sound like a jet taking off shrieked in his ears. The bats swarmed, rising up into the night. Some twitchy methhead screamed about a roaring dragon.

"No, it's a plane."

The methhead looked ready to contest the point. "_No_, it's…"

* * *

"Superman," Batman said. "I knew you'd show your cape around here sooner or later."

Superman set down. Already a puddle of grimy rainwater was staining his boots. Here among the gargoyles and the smell and the unending din, Batman was in his element. And Superman was never so far out of his.

"Your heart didn't even skip one beat. I see you haven't lost that primal instinct in your old age." Batman wasn't that old. But as the saying went, it wasn't the years, it was the mileage. "That was a joke."

"Thanks for telling me."

"I wanted to contact you before, but there was an emergency," Superman said, his voice small and calm as medicine.

"Of course there was. I'm just surprised you didn't have to help a little old lady across the street."

Superman's eyes flashed a brighter blue, almost imperceptibly. It wasn't that he didn't respect Batman's privacy, but he was curious to see if there were any scars on that human face he kept bottled up. Bruce, fragile Bruce, could always have a concussion and still be working…

Dismayed, Superman shook his head. "All these years and you still keep lead in your cowl."

"You're not the only Kryptonian out there."

_Tell me about it._ "I remember the first time we met. You didn't keep your mask shielded _then_."

Batman turned away. "And I've regretted it ever since." There was a scream. "Two blocks away, Finch Street."

Superman blurred. Was there and back again. "Done. And you don't mean that."

Batman said nothing.

"It's been five years… isn't there anything you want to say to me?"

"There's been plenty."

"Well?"

"Your suit…"

"Yes?"

"It's darker. I like it."

"Yeah, me too. I think it brings out my eyes… like they need any help!"

Batman groaned. Clark always did like to think of them as friends, like they could gossip around the water cooler or get together to play cards on Friday. And maybe they had been. But five years was a long time and there were times when Gotham could've used a Man of Steel. Not that he would ever say so.

He drew his PDA out of his utility belt and called up the satellite images of the meteorite hit yesterday in Kansas. He showed it to Clark.

"Nice landing," Bruce said dryly.

Clark winced at the memory. Kara had innocently examined the controls, not knowing that Clark had configured it to be more comfortable to him after a lifetime of Earth technology, and accidentally futzed with their descent trajectory.

"Any one you can walk away from," he returned, purposefully setting down. Just hard enough to shake the roof. Batman didn't sway.

"I had my hackers delete all traces of it from government databases. You're off the radar."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"That's all you wanted to see me about? And by the way…" Clark nodded toward the tied-up thug. "You could've just called. Oh, that's right. I don't have a light with my logo on it."

"That was Jim's idea."

"As if you wouldn't geek out over it." Then, with more concern. "I didn't see you at the Cross-Metropolitan Ball."

A tradition dating back to when Metropolis and Gotham had been considered sister cities. Clark hadn't attended, of course, but he had given it a quick X-ray glance on his way to Metropolis. He had expected Bruce to find out about the crash and seek him out… why not there? It was the one black-tie affair Clark had looked forward to, knowing that at least there was someone there who could understand what he was going through. Secret identity and all.

"Even while you were here, all you did was never work up the nerve to ask Lois to dance. Now that you have an excuse for it, I have that much less reason to go. There are crimes I could be investigating."

"You know about Richard?" Superman said tersely.

"What did you expect me to do, Clark, keep her warm for you?"

_Fine. You want to play it that way…_ "I would've settled for keeping Lex Luthor in jail."

"Believe me, I tried. He kept clean. You and his henchmen were the only three people who knew about his crimes." Batman kept his voice in the usual cold monotone, even when he twisted the knife. Nothing personal. "You were gone and he killed them."

"Miss Teschmacher?"

"Yes."

"She was… a nice girl." She had loved her mother. No one who loved their mother could be all bad. "She didn't deserve that."

"I'm sure the people Lex killed while she aided and abetted felt the same way."

Superman shook his head. "What happened to you?"

"I was so young once… I had so much hope, such grand ideals… be glad you have Metropolis, Kal-El. This city isn't fit for hope." He stepped up onto the cornice and prepared to… not fly… fall.

There was a whoosh and Superman's hand was on his shoulder. Batman turned. Superman pressed a wristwatch into his hand.

"It emits a signal only I can hear. If you ever need me, day _or_ night… I'll be around."

"You're _always_ around," Batman groused. Then clamped down hard on his lower jaw. Because Superman hadn't been, and they both knew it.

Superman flew up, up, and away while Batman glided down to the streets. Somewhere, there was a crime being committed. Somewhere, there was a disaster to stop.

And across the street, Chloe Sullivan lowered her camera.

"Whoa. Team-up."


	5. Cancer

Everyone loved a hero. Lex Luthor most of all.

And, although Lex might've been projecting a little, everyone hated gods… big government… parents… overbearing spouses… whatever you wanted to call it.

What was the difference? Lex had nearly driven himself mad trying to find out. He was a respected businessman, true… but only _respected_. Superman was loved. Cherished. _Worshipped_.

He'd beaten Lex at the game and he didn't even know he was playing.

Gone for five years and they welcomed him back with open arms. Why? Because he caught a plane? Did he have the knowledge to build that plane? To design it, to fund it, to crew and maintain it? No. All he did was swoop in and save the day.

In retrospect, sabotaging the test flight had been a mistake. Or, rather, a _learning experience_. It hadn't even been done to intentionally spite him, but catching that plane had saved the meddlesome Lois Lane, who'd been a thorn in his side for longer than he cared to remember.

Lex Luthor took care of himself. His diet was balanced, and impeccable. Chefs would travel to Metropolis on their own dime for a chance to satisfy his palate. His hair, what little was left, was given better treatment than most people's entire bodies. What little hair grew on his scalp since the meteor shower was carefully shaved to prevent stubble. His eyebrows were plucked and his face was shaved adroitly each morning and once in the afternoon. After photographs of him without his wigs had been published, he simply put baldness into fashion.

If his face was a little puffy, he'd put on an ice pack while doing stomach crunches. He was up to a thousand now. The rest of his work-out routine was calibrated twofold: the perfection of the human body, like the Adonis epitome, and sheer physical power. His brief stay in prison had awoken him to the sheer joy of exercising his will over someone by the most direct means possible. Not as satisfying as the Machiavellian will to power, but a guilty pleasure. And unlike Superman, his muscles were built by effort. By will.

After he'd removed the ice pack he'd use a deep pore cleanser lotion. Although some evenings he would spoil himself with a hedonistic time in the baths as well as some female companionship (Kitty was becoming increasingly disappointing in that regard), usually he showered. He would use a water-activated gel cleanser, then a honey almond body scrub, and an exfoliating gel scrub on his face. He would leave on a herb-mint facial mask for ten minutes while he went through the rest of his routine. His aftershave never had alcohol in it. Alcohol dried the face out, made one look older. Superman never aged.

When he emerged from the shower room in the silk boxers and undershirt he'd laid out beforehand, his lackeys were waiting to dress him. He'd relayed unusual instructions as to his ensemble, but they'd risen to the task. The suit they had ready for him was powerful, but understated. He would let the opulence of his surroundings speak louder than his own modest dress.

It was heroes. The ones that everyone loved had flaws and foibles. They rose to overcome their obstacles. They took risks. They had… ambition.

How could the alien understand that? He could take a bullet for the President and brush it off like it was nothing.

Heroes were brave. Superman didn't have to be brave. He knew he could survive anything.

Mankind had outgrown gods in favor of the divinity within themselves. And now this interloper would drag them back to the dark ages of superstition and ignorance.

It was, Lex decided, wholly unacceptable.

* * *

Lois woke up from a dream.

In it, she'd been flying on the Kord Industries space-jet, making a nuisance of herself as usual, when the plane had crashed. Only it _hadn't_ crashed. Superman had caught her--them. The whole thing had been so vivid that she considered rolling over and telling Richard about it.

_Oh._

She sat up and looked around. She was in a stadium parking lot, surrounded by tail-gate parties and ambulances. Aside from the butterfly bandage on her temple, she felt fine… a little sore, maybe, but no reason to call the EMTs away from patients with real injuries.

She remembered the swoony, dizzy feeling of surreality. After Superman had snatched her out of the sky (_the first time_), she'd felt as if she were walking on air. She hadn't been able to believe a man could fly. Over time, she hadn't been able to separate the dream of a god from another world _courting_ her from the reality. Then she'd woken up to Richard and beautiful Jason. For five years she'd been awake. Now she was dreaming again.

Her cell-phone was vibrating. Lois fetched it from her purse, wincing at the sudden pain in her head as she did so. Maybe she _wasn't_ fine.

It was Richard. "Honey, that you?"

"It's me… I'm okay," she added, cutting off his next question. "Jason?"

"Fine." Richard's voice carried an air of relief. "Thinks Superman saving his mom was the coolest thing ever. He's running around with a red towel wrapped around his neck." There was a childish squawk in the background. "Sorry, he wants me to tell you it's a cape."

Lois's nose wrinkled. This burg didn't smell like Metropolis… of course not, they'd taken off from Metropolis and been flying away from there when… the accident… happened…

"Richard, any word on what caused the crash?"

"Not yet. But Kord is saying that the plane's sensors didn't detect any mechanical failure. Of course, if the engines didn't work, how could you expect the _sensors_ to?"

Lois sat up. "Somewhere, Dibny's nose is wiggling."

"Huh?"

"Never mind." She looked around. "Where the hell did I land?"

"Cleveland."

"…send a car, Richard. Get me the hell outta here."

Superman. All over again on this roller-coaster ride. At that moment, Lois doubted anyone hated him quite as much as her.

* * *

Lex looked at himself in the mirror as Mercy, acting as valet, brushed lint off his suit. Lex was a grown man. He dressed accordingly. And yet so much adulation went to the man who dressed up in a circus outfit.

As a child, Lex had tried to dress in his father's suits. They'd been too big for him at the time. And now the alien was playing paternal to all the world.

It was mind-numbingly unhealthy.

You could always tell a culture by the heroes they venerated. The British had their proud white explorers and huntsman, the Greeks had their deified Heroes, the Americans had their folk heroes. And now the hero of today, the first _global_ hero, was a man who hadn't earned his powers, hadn't proven himself worthy of _anything_, but had merely inherited them.

He had no more right to his "superpowers" than Paris Hilton did to her wealth.

The statesmen of the War for Independence had given way to compromisers so vague and generic that the American people couldn't even tell them apart unless they got involved in some scandal… and then they were _sure_ to be re-elected. It made Lex dream of running for public office, just to rip apart the whole thing from the inside.

If a few short years of worshipping at the alter of Superman could lead a nation down that path, then what might a lifetime poison?

Arch-nemesis. Foil. Mirror image. Polar opposite. Adversary. Opponent. Enemy. Villain.

He may not always do the good thing, but he always did the right thing. Lately.

What was in a name, anyway? If they wrote him into the history books as the bad guy, it would be worth it if Superman went down as the martyr. Lex would know the truth. Lex would know that he had saved the world from a dangerous alien invasion.

Arch-nemesis. What kind of word was that, anyway? If he was Superman's arch-nemesis, than Superman was his in turn. Everything was subjective. All you had to do was change the narrator and the story changed. Shift the point of view and the hero was the villain. So Superman had them all fooled. One day, the truth would be known. If someone ever walked the Earth who was on the level of Lex Luthor's genius, he (or she) would be able to read the treatises and the arguments… and see that Lex was right. If the common rabble didn't see that, it didn't matter. Lex was meant for the great men that stood on the shoulders of those sheep. Any idiot could be a man of the people. Only a hero could be a member of the elite.

Lex stared into his reflection. If it were just him, just Alexander, he might let it go. He'd been selfish, once. Lost his way. And so long as Superman stayed out of his way, he could feel free to perpetuate his schemes without any interference from the Kryptonian… perhaps, indeed, designing his plots to avoid superheroic entanglement and subsumed with the knowledge that he had outsmarted anyone who might confront him.

But that would be wrong.

Superman was poison coated in chocolate, a cancer on the planet. He would have to be excised before his influence corrupted anyone else.

* * *

Lois had the horrible feeling she was expected to be grateful to Superman. True, she'd won a Pulitzer thanks to him (or, more accurately, _no_ thanks to him), but she'd been a rising star even before he'd swooped into her life. And somehow he'd managed to wrap her name up in red, yellow, and blue. Maybe it was just paranoia, but she always heard _Superman's Girlfriend_ tacked on to the end whenever someone said her name. Richard was the only one who had amended _ace reporter_ to it, had actually taken a moment to look through the haze of Supermania to see a real woman behind the mystique, with feelings and needs and…

She eyed the engagement ring on her finger. How long ago had it been that Richard got down on his knees? And how long had she put him off?

_That's not the question you should be asking, Lane._

Of course. She couldn't even give a softball interview to herself. Nope, not the General's Daughter. Well, she'd put this off five years, she might as well admit it to herself. She'd been hoping Superman would whisk her away from all this. Even after Richard's proposal, even after _their son_, she'd tried to keep herself from falling in love. From making a commitment. With her son's father, she'd tried to keep from making a commitment. She was an idiot.

Girlfriend. What kind of word was that, anyway? It was so juvenile, so high school, so fumbling in the backseat of your father's Ford Taurus. She had a son. She had an adult relationship with someone who was there for her, not in the Arctic in some summer home.

She wasn't going to get sucked into this downward spiral again. She'd moved on with her life. And she had no time for Superman.

* * *

Lex was beginning to get bored. And putting off his work could prove fatal. He'd staffed his industries with competent people, but their output could mostly be categorized as workmanlike. There was no real creativity or grand ambition there; so as not to threaten his own comfortable perch atop the corporate ladder. He'd learned how to read people down to their souls in prison. None of those backstabbers had the guts to take him _or_ Superman down.

Most of his rejects found their way to Gotham, and that Wayne idiot. With so many go-getters under his cloak, it was only a matter of time before he was forced out. Maybe then Wayne Enterprises would be amenable to a buy-out. Something to think about.

At long last, the sensors picked up an approach. With a few keystrokes, he instructed the defense grid not to try to vaporize the intruder. As amusing as it was to watch ordinance dimple that clear skin of his, it always got frustrating after a while.

After a moment, the doors to the balcony were thrown open and Superman hovered inside. He touched down on the Persian carpet, the bright color of his boots (as well as the rest of him) contrasting electrically with the masculine dark décor.

"Kal-El," Lex said in greeting, like they were old chums… and in a way, after all this time, they were. He swiveled in his chair to face the alien from behind his monolithic desk. "Isn't it past your bedtime?"

"I don't sleep," Superman said, stepping closer.

Lex shuffled some papers together. "Then you don't dream." He looked up. "Yes, that fits." And, with a casual stroll, he stepped around the desk to face Superman. "What would a 'Man of Tomorrow' have to dream about, anyway?"

Superman crossed his arms just like he always did. God, five years and he might as well have been a statue, preserved in time for all eternity. Lex couldn't get enough of it.

"I was expecting to have to hunt for you. But here you are. Right out in the open. You even put your name on the building."

Lex smiled. Lex Tower. He'd had it built in the shape of an L, even having the roof slanted so that everyone could see the L clearly. He'd quite literally put his mark on the city. "Two hundred and twenty-two stories. A thousand meters tall, counting the mast. Not quite a Fortress of Solitude, but a nice little home away from home."

"You can look down on everyone." Superman ground his teeth. "You can fool everyone else, but not me. I know the real you."

"Took the words right out of my mouth."

"I know you're planning something. Some plot against me, some convoluted revenge. Whatever it is, don't go through with it." Superman's voice dipped close to pleading. "You keep your nose clean, I'll consider the slate wiped clean."

Lex couldn't stand head to head with Superman… he was almost a head shorter than the alien… so he nonchalantly sat down atop the burgundy wood of his desk. With a finely-manicured hand he opened a humidor and drew out a Cuban cigar, rubbing it between two fingers as if he could _touch_ the flavor.

"You'll extend your mercy to me?" Lex said, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Kal, Kal, Kal… you don't _get_ to judge me. This is my city. My family built it. I inherited it. And God knows I've earned it." Like a conductor with a baton, he used the cigar to gesture at the city, lit up at night like stars within a web. "This city was in an economic, a _spiritual_ depression when I found it. I gave it hope. I brought it to its feet. You'll never be able to do as much for them as I have."

"I'll do whatever I can," Superman said, his eyes glowing dangerously.

"Do you know how much the crime rates shot up when you left? Batman had to come, all the way from Gotham, to clean up the mess you left behind."

Smoke was issuing from Superman's eyelashes and his eyes were bright red. Luthor prodded the cigar into his eye, lighting it. For a moment they stood there, seemingly locked together, as Luthor took the cigar in his mouth and inhaled deeply.

"You must've known I wouldn't take your 'generous' offer. Why'd you really come here?"

"You're the smart one, Lex. You tell me."

Lex puffed on his cigar contentedly as he walked out to the balcony, Italian shoes clicking on the marble floor. He passed the Concert Grand piano that he'd once played at Carnegie Hall to a standing ovation and two encores. A single slender finger ran over the keyboard, making a zippy sound as he tripped the octaves down all eighty-eight keys. Superman winced at the noise. Out on the balcony, Lex casually held his cigar over the balustrade and tapped some ashes into the night sky.

"You want to know how I got out." Lex said, gleeful at a new chance to trumpet his superiority. He took another long pull at his cigar, the end glowing as malignant as a star going nova. "A relative of mine stepped in: Uncle Sam."

Superman scowled, but he couldn't summon up the energy to fight or deny. His eyes did not glow, either red or blue.

"They wanted me to make them 'failsafes' in exchange for a pardon. Just in case you started fighting for truth, justice, and some other way. Kryptonite warheads… bullets with Kryptonite cores… that was just the engineering busywork, though… any _MIT grad_ could do that for a term paper. What they really wanted was synthetic Kryptonite."

"Did you succeed?" Superman demanded.

"Oh, Kal-El, and spoil the surprise?"

Inevitably, Superman's hand was at his throat, lifting him off his feet.

"You don't get to call me that."

"This suit is worth more than some people's lives. Don't wrinkle it."

Superman set him down, his face twisted like someone had just burnt his childhood security blanket in an incinerator. Lex smiled slowly. A creeping thing that spread from cheek to cheek.

"That's the great truth of our time. No matter how many times you save them, you will never be one of them. And because you're not one of them, they'll never trust you… like they trust me."

Superman turned away, almost as if to take off, but Lex grabbed hold of his cape at the shoulder. Superman's heatvision flared back to life, flooding his eyes with red. Slowly, he turned. He brushed Lex's hand off with chilling precision. It must've taken every ounce of self-control not to knock him off the balcony.

"I really don't have anything against you, Kal-El."

"I told you not to call me that," Superman said softly.

"In another life, we even could've been friends. But you have to meddle. You have to interfere with the only thing that makes this squalid, hateful little world great."

"I save people."

"From themselves!" Lex angrily stubbed his cigar out on the balustrade, carelessly despoiling the fine craftsmanship. "From our destiny!"

"Only a warped maniac like you could believe mankind's destiny is to rape and pillage each other, the strong dominating the weak…"

"YES! All that and more, if need be. But as men, not children with you as omnipotent parent. Look at all I've done without you. I've turned this city into an earthly paradise. I've cured sickness, brought up the weak… now that you're back, that'll all have to be put on hold. Neither of us trusts the other enough to let our feud die."

After a long moment, as if wanting to deny it, Superman shook his head decisively. "I won't take responsibility for your evil."

Something twinged in Lex, something familiar but long ignored… the splinter in his mind's eye… he, in turn, shook it off.

"Just like you can't take responsibility for our good. Imagine what we could have chosen to become if it weren't for you forcing us down your narrow little path." He practically spat the next words in Superman's face. "Who gave you the right to be our God?"

"You're the one who keeps trying to play God."

Lex smiled as he ran a hand over his bald head. "Play? Children play, Superman. I just _do_." He got up in Superman's face, or as close as he could come to it. The beacon of the bright yellow and red S filled his vision. "I'm currently the third richest man on the planet. And by currently, I mean temporarily. Additionally, I have an annual income of two billion, which is two hundred million a month, seven million a day, three hundred thousand an hour, five thousand a minute… how long have we been talking, Superman?"

"Like you said, Lex… temporarily."

Superman took off until he was well overhead, flanking the radio tower that topped Lex Tower.

"Just remember… No matter how big you build your tower, I'll still be able to fly over it."

Lex held back his laughter until Superman flew off. Flight. Like that meant anything these days. If Lex wanted to fly, he'd use a plane.

Looking down at someone? That was just height. He could buy a step ladder. The real mark of supremacy was knowledge. He had knowledge Superman would never have. The synthetic Kryptonite was just kid's stuff compared to what he'd unearthed. Five years to set up a playing ground for when Superman returned. He hasn't wasted a single second. He'd _known_, in a corner of his mind, that Superman was still out there. Watching him. Spying on him. Thinking about him.

After finger-flicking the cigar into an eight hundred meter drop, he went back inside. With a click of his PDA, lead shutters closed over all the windows. He stood in front of his mirror and typed in a code to the PDA, "0451." It sent out a signal not even Superman could detect. The mirror seamlessly turned to liquid and sucked itself into the rim, opening the way to the huge vault doors that spun open as soon as they'd taken biometric readings of Lex. He stepped inside.

The crystals were still there, of course. His fingertips twitched. A few more moments and sweat from his palms would drip off them. Lex gave himself over to his anxiety for three seconds. Then he reached out and decisively grasped the one of the shoots growing out of the main crystal.

It flared in his hand, burning him, frying his hand down to the bone and sizzling skin and melting bone… but that was just his imagination, the pain his penance. After the merest moment, the shoot withdrew from between his fingers, sinking into the trunk. The crystal seemed to melt, _bleed_. Liquid crystal flowed past his shoes and up the walls, surrounding him in an impenetrable sphere. Light bounced around inside it, solidifying into a single mass. A face.

"He's back," Lex told it.

"_Finally_."


	6. Innocence Lost

Barbara Gordon had always taken the old saying "When you date a man, you date his family," as a droll witticism, the kind of thing Jane Austen might write on an off day. In Dick's case, Barbara Gordon was sure it was meant as the most dire of warnings.

Coming in late, Dick had offered her some coffee before taking her home. She'd accepted, fully aware that there might be more than coffee in the offing. Then they'd run smack dab into Dick's parents.

They yelled in Romani, he yelled in English. From what Barbara was able to pick up, Dick had snuck out to meet her. And if this was his home life, she didn't blame him. A lot of vitriol got directed her way, Dick inadvertently translating with "Barbara is _not_ a" and so on. It didn't take long for Barbara to have her fill of that, especially when the parents insisted on using "outie" instead of her name. She slipped away while all three of them were busy yelling at each other.

The Grayson family, like most of the workers at Haley's Circus, had taken up residence in one of the Affordable Housing Action apartment complexes that Wayne Enterprises had built. In theory, that meant private security to pick up the GCPD's slack. In practice, as Barbara could personally attest, the street was deserted and the streetlights were flickering. No way Barbara was waiting around for a cab. She ducked into the nearest subway station.

After delay after delay after delay in the Wayne Enterprises rebuilding of the monorail line, Lexcorp had made a bid at the lucrative contract. When he was rebuffed, a smarting Luthor had simply taken over the old subways that had fallen into disuse. Set-in-their-way Gothamites, Barbara included, preferred the monorail… but any port in a storm.

Barbara had always idolized Mina Harker, and not just because Mina had caught the attention of a dark, decadent creature of the night. And so, like her childhood hero, Barbara had the train schedule memorized. She double-checked the map, a two-dimensional Gordian knot of multicolored subway lines, just to be sure. Yup. Barbara swiped her E-Z pass in the turnstile and was on her way home within five minutes.

There was another reason Gothamites preferred the monorail, besides stubbornness. The eco-friendly revamp of the monorail line was whisper-quiet and rode smooth as a baby's bottom. The Lexcorp line, by contrast, roared with electric hunger, its stomach grumbling at stops. The only other passengers in the car were an elderly Asian couple. Barbara waved at them from across the subway car. They waved back, then returned to holding hands.

The Jimi Hendrix on her iPod wasn't enough to drown out the grind of the train, but as soon as Barbara got a text message from Dick, she stopped caring. He said he was under house arrest until his "promised" came to Gotham (which Barbara didn't like the sound of on any number of levels) but he would still see her at school.

The train came to a stop with a bestial screech. The elderly couple got off and a middle-aged man, face ruddy beneath a bushy beard, got on. She clutched the pepper spray in her purse, but he didn't last five minutes before the subway's motion lulled him to sleep. Barbara followed suit. It'd been a long day and the fight at the Graysons had left her exhausted. She let her guard down and gave herself over to the hypnotizing rocking of the subway car.

When she jerked to full awareness, he was sitting across from her… wide awake.

"You smell nice," he said, staring at her tennis shoes before his eyes crept up to her bare thighs.

All the Lex News scare stories – escaped Arkham killers who'd infiltrated society and fear toxin in the tap water leading to psychotic behavior – it all filled her head in once.

"Thanks," she said, forcing a smile.

"Your cunt, I mean." His smile never changed. Just his eyes; not his smile. "Your cunt smells nice."

She jammed her hand into her purse.

There was a switchblade in his hand. "Don't."

It was a really long knife. The blade was shiny.

"The purse. Hand it over!"

She nearly sighed in relief as she did. A robbery. It was just a robbery.

He snatched the purse from her trembling hands. Poured it out on the floor, cosmetics and gadgets crashing down to hard metal.

"Now pick up the wallet and hand it over. Don't even think of going near the spray. I'll cut you!"

Without any sudden movements, she stooped to pick it up. "Please, just take the money and go. Don't hurt me. My name is Barbara Gordon, my father is police commissioner James Gordon. He'd be very happy if you didn't hurt me." It sounded stupid even as she said it.

"Shut up!" He took the wallet from her, jabbed it into the depths of his coat.

The monster that had devoured them shrieked again, jolted them with a sudden stop. Barbara almost made a break for it, but the man's hand was clutching her arm before she could move. She watched, her eyes very wide, as he folded up the knife and stuck it in his pocket.

"Don't try to run. Do anything stupid, I'll cut you. I'm a real fast cutter."

Barbara was doing it all wrong. All her father's advice, all her self-defense courses, everything but _fear_ had left her. She was skipping ahead in time with each ragged breath, before she had time to think or speak or scream.

Out onto the subway platform. It was empty except for a bag lady passed out in rags and empty bottles. The man pushed her down to the tracks, then jumped down after her. He hauled her over the humming third rail, then into an access door. The lock had been broken before they got there.

The hallway was all concrete, the floor damp and scummy from a burst ceiling pipe. The man… not 'the killer,' Barbara tried to assure herself, not 'the rapist'… was brandishing his knife again.

"Please, sir," Barbara sniffled as she was forced deeper and deeper down the tunnel's slight incline. "Please, I don't wanna die."

"Sir… that's a nice touch. I like that."

He stopped her with a grip on her red hair, then tried the lock on a supply closet. It was open. Perversely, he got the door for her. When Barbara hesitated, he shook his knife. The dim light refracted off the blade at new, terrifying angles.

"Get in."

The room was dark except for some light that came in through the cracks. It lit just enough for Barbara to pick up outlines, motion. "I've never done anything to you. Please, just let me go! I won't tell anyone. Don't hurt me…"

"I'm not gonna hurt you." He closed the door behind them. "I'd never hurt anyone. The knife's just for show. Part of the fun, right? I'm just going to make your wildest dreams come true. The ones where your dream guy holds you down and won't let you say no…"

She was backed up against the wall, as far away from him as possible. All too soon his hot breath was burning her skin.

"Don't! Please, Jesus, don't!"

"I'll understand if you have to pretend not to like it. Cuz a all the judgmental prudes out there. But I know you like it. You all like it." He unbuckled his belt. "All you whores do…"

It was now or never.

She lunged at him, knuckles poised for his testicles. Expecting it, he twisted his hip so all she hit was thigh. It was still a good hit, and his left leg buckled. He shifted his weight to the right foot. His pants fell down. He pulled Barbara up by the hair and threw her against the wall. Shelves full of cleaning supplies rattled. She kicked him in the shin, but then he was against her, his meaty body pressing her against the wall. On her leg, she could feel his erection through his underwear. She raised her knee into it. He groaned and grabbed hold of her hair again when she ran for the door. It felt like half her scalp was going, but she managed to throw the door open.

Batman was in the doorway, his body silhouetted by the outside light. His eyes, cruel slits…

"Miss Gordon," he said. "Don't watch.

And he stepped past her into the room.

Barbara didn't watch, but she did listen. She heard a scream, a sharp crack, a second scream, then nothing but whimpering and the steady breathing of the Batman.

"Your father's worried about you." His voice was like cut glass, like it hurt him to talk, like it might hurt her to hear it. She got the sense he chose his words carefully. "Robinson Street is well-lit. Catch a cab there. Or call someone you can trust. Call a shrink, if you've got one."

She'd heard how this worked. When Batman saved someone, most of the time they didn't press charges. And it wasn't like _he_ could give testimony in court. So the guy often walked, scot-free, with only the fear of the Bat in him. And that faded with time, until they got crazy or desperate enough to try again. And maybe that time Batman wouldn't be there.

Barbara was here. Now.

"What about the cops?"

Batman looked at her, surprised. And a little impressed. "Your choice."

She flashed, suddenly, on all the criminals who went free because no one would press charges. He would know that better than most. But he did what he did anyway.

"But don't call an ambulance." Batman wrenched the would-be rapist's arms into handcuffs, which were hooked around a pipe. Barbara saw a ghastly compound fracture on the man's arm. Looked good on him. "He'll survive, but I want him to suffer."

"Yes sir. Thank you. Marry me."

Batman paused, looked at her, a little… amused? Barbara felt six inches tall. Before he could make it worse, she had her cell-phone whipped down and dialing 911. Batman gestured for her to follow him, then was out the door. Realizing she was alone with the man, who was howling like a coyote with his leg caught in a trap, she hastened to follow.

"Where are you taking me?"

"The surface. Your father will be waiting."

"That was…" Barbara smoothed the cricks from her pants, tried to be as suave and mature as possible. "Really something back there. He didn't have a chance!"

Batman didn't respond.

"So, uh, thanks. Again. For everything."

Batman was occupied, holding a device in his hand. He pressed a button and it shook, once, before falling silent.

"What's that?"

"GPS locator. Your father has the technology to locate its beacon."

Barbara tried her best to walk regally while still keeping pace with his long strides. "You and dad are pretty tight, huh?"

"He's a worthwhile ally. You should be proud to be his daughter."

"I am. But… what about you?"

Batman stopped at a ladder to look at her.

"Is there anyone… you have… to be proud of you?"

Batman took hold of the ladder rungs with what had to be white-knuckled grips. "No. Up."

They climbed. The ladder led to a subway grille, which the Batman pushed open. Red-blue police lights hurt her eyes as she climbed up onto the street. Before she knew it, her father was engulfing her in his arms. She looked back to see the grille just being set back in place.

* * *

Harvey Dent entered his house like a hurricane coming ashore. Gilda was chopping carrots, mainly as an excuse to have a knife at hand. She cut herself at the sound of the door bursting open. Bright red blood spilled across the cutting board. She burst into tears, but not because of the pain. Seeing him alive was enough.

"Are you okay?" Harvey asked, grabbing hold of her arms so hard that the knife dropped from her fingers. "Did anyone hurt you?"

"No, no, I'm fine… they said there was an assassination attempt, an attempt on your _life_."

Harvey shook his head. "It was nothing, nothing…"

"They called. They said… they said I was a widow…"

Harvey's critical mass of nervousness came down on the phone. He ripped the phone line right out of the wall, taking the socket with it. His chest heaved as he breathed heavily, expelling rage with each breath. After a few deep breaths, he finally calmed.

"You feel like cooking tonight?" he asked her.

Gilda shook her head.

"Me neither. Let's order in."

He took out his cell-phone to call and it rang just as his thumb hovered over the number-pad. The caller ID said Gordon.

"Honey, find a coupon," he told Gilda. "I need to take this."

She hustled off to the drawer in the kitchen where they kept the leaflets, but kept a close eye through the frosted glass window into the rec room. Harvey sat down heavily in the east chair, not even bothering to take off his coat. He often got like this, at night more than any other times. In front of the cameras he could be the crusader, even with Gordon he could play the hero… but with her, he was vulnerable. It was like someone had tarnished that bronze image of his. After a moment, he got up.

She went back to leafing through the coupons, although nothing held her interest. Nothing, that is, until the door creaked behind her and she turned to see Harvey. He belatedly began shucking off his coat.

All he said was "Jim Gordon's little girl."

Gilda raised a hand to her mouth in shock. "Is she okay?"

"Yeah. The Batman was there. She's a little shaken up, but… yeah."

* * *

Barbara got home in something of a fugue state. Her father drove her, but he didn't say much of anything, except for "You know we love you, right?" She had nodded fitfully.

They got home and Mom started fawning over. That, somehow, made it all hit home. She only cried a little, but it was enough to start Mom crying. Dad was on the phone to a police psychologist, but Barbara didn't really think she'd need one. She was smart enough to know what she was going through. Profuse sweating, blurriness of vision, heightened awareness, accelerated heart rate… she was going into shock.

"Could someone bring me some water, please?" she asked.

Jim Junior, her little brother who was all of eight years old, brought her some. She took it gratefully and then was on the stairs up to her room. Dad hung up and followed her upstairs. She put her hand around the doorknob, couldn't bring herself to turn it, and instead leaned there as she looked back at Dad.

"Barbara, you really think it's a good idea to be alone right now?"

Barbara took a deep drink of water. "I'm fine. Nothing happened. I'm fine."

"Okay, well… if you need anything…"

"I won't," Barbara said like cut glass, and closed the door behind her.

In her room, she gave the speedbag a tap as she went by, but couldn't bring herself to abuse it more than that.

She knew that physical exertion was a curative for shock, but that really didn't help. And crying was a symptom too, but she really genuinely felt like crying. And not letting anyone see her.

There was a sewing machine on her work desk, usually tucked away off to the corner. Her mother had gotten it for her on her sweet sixteen. She'd become proficient at it, but never had much interest at it.

The blurriness clouding her eyes was lifting; or transfiguring. She was not seeing red. She was seeing black. Something vast… terrible… swooping down towards her.

She grabbed some black fabric and went to work, only stopping to fetch some yellow.


	7. Teenage Rebellion

Her knees complained with each step up the creaking stairs, and the plate of cookies demanded that a hand be taken off the railing and added to its support, but in the end, Martha Kent climbed her Everest. She rarely came up to the second floor of the Kent house, but Clark's old room was there and Kara had insisted on sleeping in it. She rose her hand to knock, but a clear voice said "Enter."

She did.

Kara was floating over the mattress horizontally, arms crossed and as stiff as a mummified pharaoh. The bedclothes that hung off her gave a skeletal look to her body.

"I could have heard your bones creaking a mile away. More than a mile."

Martha set her jaw and ignored the insult. "I know you've been in a funk lately. Maybe some fresh-baked cookies will snap you out of it."

"My world is _gone_. You really think some cookies are going to make me feel better?"

"If the past is weighting you down, focus on the future."

Kara floated higher, spinning so that she was facing Martha. She nearly bumped into the ceiling. Martha had to crane her neck to face her.

"My future is an eternity on this barbaric rock, with yellow light that stings my eyes and clothes that _won't stop itching!_"

"I can take you to the store to buy new clothes," Martha said magnanimously.

Snide: "Oh, would you?"

Martha set the plate down on Clark's dresser, pushing aside a Little League trophy. She crossed her arms severely. "You can make this easy or you can make this difficult. It won't change what happened, but it will change how people see you. And from here, you are not looking very good."

Kara's blue eyes flashed as she considered it. Then she floated down onto the bed.

"Thank you for the cookies, Mrs. Kent."

"You've very welcome. Now get dressed, we're going to town."

Martha turned to give Kara her privacy, but on her way out the door Kara stopped her.

"How old was he when he found out?" Kara asked, looking at the red star on the ceiling, alone among all the green.

"He started getting his powers at age twelve, but it wasn't until he was in high school that we told him he was… one of you."

"How'd he take it?"

"Pretty well, considering… I think he felt that it explained a lot."

"Did he ever…" Kara reached up to touch the red star, blotting it out with the tip of her finger. "Did he ever wish that Krypton hadn't exploded and he'd grown up with his real parents?"

"His birth parents, you mean?" Martha said stiffly. "Yes. He did. But if wishes were fishes, we'd all cast nets in the sea."

* * *

As soon as she stepped out of the elevator and onto the floor of her apartment building, Chloe was dialing her editor. Vicki's voice was muddy over the cell-phone link, that _wonderful_ Gotham gremlin that seemed to possess every communications device from time to time. Still, Chloe was so keyed up she could hear Vicki's voice crystal clear. She didn't even bother fumbling with her keys, just stood outside her locked door and let her hands rub together excitedly.

"Bump the Batarang from the superhero page, I've got a new headline."

"Bigger than Superman coming back?" Vicki sounded amused, as she usually did when talking to Chloe. "If it were anyone else…"

"Superman talking with Batman. A little grainy, but that helps it look realer."

Vicki groaned at the reminder of their fledgling tabloid status. "Legit?"

"I saw it with my own two eyes. They talked a little, seemed to have a bit of an argument, then Big Blue flew off."

"You're too late for evening edition."

"I've already got it up on my blog."

"And people who _aren't_ in your legion of newsboys will read about it tomorrow morning. Follow up on it, Sullivan. I wanna know what they were talking about."

"Vicki, as of now, Batman and Superman are my only story."

She flipped her cell-phone shut and tossed it into her tote bag, bumped into a big yellow shield. She looked up into sapphire eyes. _Damnit_.

"Clark," she said.

"It's still Superman when I'm in costume," he said, a bit gruffer than she was used to. "Obviously, you haven't told anyone."

She shrugged. "Who would believe me?"

He seemed unsure whether to hug or shake hands, so he settled for clapping her on the shoulder manfully. "So, how've you been?"

"Single, occasionally twenty pounds overweight, and now a blogger."

"A what?"

"Look it up on Wikipedia."

"On where?"

She rolled her eyes. "Just forget it. You're more charming when you're naïve."

Then, it was to business. Seemed like it always was, whenever she saw Clark those days. Maybe it was too much to ask for that when he had come back, he'd left behind the stick up his ass. Because she'd wanted him to leave behind the stick which had been up his ass since he's gotten his powers. That is, she didn't mind his ass being back, since it was a nice ass, she just wished the stick, which was up his ass, wasn't there.

For both the obvious reason and because she was still tripped up by 'nice ass', Chloe didn't look him in the eye. It just made it that much more difficult for him. Maybe he even deserved it a little. Chloe didn't feel great about making him squirm, but he owed her for five years of not being there.

"I want you to pull the pictures from your website," he said at last, resigned to the fact that she wasn't bubbling over with happiness to see him.

"No can do."

"You know how much fear and mistrust we're greeted with. And now people are going to think we're in league!"

Chloe walked around him. It was pitiful how fast they fell back into old roles. For her, at least; she was the secretary. But even if he didn't need her help, she still wanted him to have it. "Maybe people wouldn't fear you as much if you were more open."

"No matter what I do, people will fear me." Clark almost explained to her about the possibility of artificial Kryptonite being out there, somewhere. But, no, he couldn't trust her not to turn it into a scoop. Five years ago he could've, but if there was anything coming home had taught him, it was that time made all the difference.

"Doesn't mean you can't try to change their minds."

He looked at her with eyes that were cold as Arctic ice. "Why _should_ I? How many times should I have to prove myself? How many times…" Superman reached out and took her hand. She flinched. "How many times must I hold someone before they trust that I won't crush them?"

Unbidden, a tear crawled down Chloe's cheek. She didn't bother wiping it away. _Damnit, Sullivan!. Goddamnit!_ "I never blamed you for what happened. Not ever."

"That's alright. I did it for you."

Her heart quickened. Superman heard and knew what was going to happen next. She stepped forward and laid her head against his broad chest, ear against the S-shield. As securely as his cape protected him, Clark sheltered her within his arms. She wore a new perfume, but under it was the same Chloe smell. Trustworthiness and reliability and… love. He could admit that. That there was love between them, even if they'd buried it long ago. Even if her pulse hadn't quickened when she'd seen him again, because she was so blasé and cosmopolitan now. A good reporter. Her dream had come true and he'd missed it.

His heart was beating like a blacksmith was using it as an anvil. She must've heard it.

"You could put Lex behind bars if you wanted to. They say he got out because you didn't testify against him. You were the prosecution's star witness and…"

"I never knew there was going to be a retrial. I thought his conviction was airtight."

She sniffled. "There's no statute of limitations on what he did. Put him away, Clark. He deserves it, and worse. They all do."

"No."

His voice wasn't as heroically deep as it had once been, but it wasn't the high falsetto of Clark Kent either. It was Clark, straight-edge farmboy going to Smallville High, who spoke to her in dulcet, soothing tones when no one else would give her or her conspiracy theories the time of day. The Clark Kent who'd told her about his gifts because he knew she wouldn't be afraid. The one who'd given her the first kiss of her life.

"I have to believe," he said, stumbling over his words as if he were that trembling schoolboy once more instead of the world's greatest hero. "I have to believe that he's capable of redemption. Even Lex deserves a second chance."

"That's more than he gave his victims."

"And that's why we're better than him."

"You, maybe," she spat. "But I'm human. And I want him dead."

"Our desires don't make us human. Actions alone determine that."

"Actions." Chloe shouldered her purse. "Well, Clark, I'm off to get stinking drunk, alone, in my overpriced apartment. You do whatever. But the story still runs."

And for the first time in her life, Chloe shut her door on Superman.

* * *

The day in Smallville turned out to be long, but uneventful. Martha Kent made her rounds, trading gossip and well-wishes with everyone she met on her weekly routine, while Kara tried to discover an invisibility superpower. Watching Mrs. Kent's mawkish interaction with the Earthling Ben Hubbard made Kara wish there was an Emoti-Enforcer around, like in the early days of Krypton's consolidation. But no, the wanton sentimentality went unpunished. Not that Kara supported the authoritarian "displeasure" with emotions, but she could definitely hear the Elders' words in a new light when presented with such saccharine mush.

At last, after a dozen painful attempts to be drawn into piddling conversations of no intellectual stimulation, Kara was allowed to return home. Thankfully, Kal-El's caretaker showed a modicum of tact and allowed Kara to eat her supper in her room, where she wouldn't have to be put through the so-called "humorous" blather that was projected by radio signal onto a much-accessorized cathode ray tube. Martha said she found it relaxing. It made Kara's brain hurt with its insipid predictability.

Alone at last, she reached under the mattress of her bed and found the long, cold length of her black crystal. It was a cylinder, rounded at the ends, and as thick as the space between her thumb and forefinger. As soon as she touched it, the crystal warmed and lit up a dark pink for her. From it, warmth flowed through her body. She set it aside, still throbbing, as she needed to prepare for bed. But it felt comforting just to have it on, that low machine hum filling the air instead of the Earth sounds or Earth silence.

The shower was an inefficient way to get clean, but not unpleasant. With hot, hot water she scrubbed herself, replacing the scent of the outside with the comparatively clean one of the soap. At the very least, she had not changed. The Earthlings used improper diet and exercise as a matter of course, while she had developed a fit instrument of a body. Her flesh was taut, ripe, smooth… pleasing physical attributes on Krypton, although from the media she'd seen Earth placed a much stronger emphasis on such arbitrary factors. Her body was whipcord-thin and bronzed as any tanner's, her buttocks firm and high, her midriff flat, her breasts small but firm. As long as she was being judged on physical factors, she felt better that she was being judged on those things than the overall cherubic nature of her face, the smile that came too easily and too "adorably" for her to be taken seriously when they went to town, the hair that went everywhere the moment she moved faster than a dull walk.

Coming out of the shower dripping wet, she examined herself in the mirror. She was strong, but it wasn't obvious. The "cornfed hunks" of Smallville were all broad, beefy specimens… a little like Clark. She was decidedly more compact than even the husky girls who hung off those muscular boys. She had already encountered a word to describe her physicality, which was "petite". Her body was petite and unremarkable so long as she did not make an effort to make it remarkable, in which case her sexuality could be an asset.

Turning to view her reflection from different angles, Kara noted the way her waist tapered slightly and how her nipples puckered irritatingly in the cold. They were pink and, outside the personalized climate control of Krypton, had a tendency to engorge at inopportune times. This resulted in Martha Kent insisting on Kara wearing thicker shirts and more layers of clothing. She accepted Martha Kent's advice, although it seemed likely that this would result in less attention from the male population of Smallville, which would seem to unnecessarily complicate mating attempts. For a primitive world, Earth was shockingly roundabout about the simplest things.

She ran a hand lightly down the silken skin of her stomach, stopping to dip a finger experimentally into the thimble cup of her belly button. It tickled. She slapped her belly and felt pure muscle, proof of her discipline's victory over Earth "cuisine" and sedentary traditions. With pride, she ran her hands up until they were tangled in her hair. She quickly gathered it up into a simple ponytail, then dressed in some of the clothes she'd bought with Martha.

The crystal was waiting for her, so black it seemed to suck light into it. Dimming the lights, Kara sat on the bed. She crossed her legs and held the crystal on her lap, the better to commune with it. Her breath entered a self-hypnotic state, focused to intensity yet loose enough for meditative purposes. The crystal's systems opened up to her, filled her. Her breasts rose and fell, and her mouth opened with the deepening of her breath. There was so much knowledge stored within, enough to satisfy even her insatiable curiosity. And as she'd suspected, some of it was about her. Her father must've known about his brother's plans for Kal-El; he wouldn't have allowed for his nephew to be spared just to neglect his only daughter. So what was her purpose? What had she survived for? She went deeper to seek her answers. Her eyelids lowered, and she began to sway from side to side, smiling dumbly at the satisfaction of answers entering her mind.

The knowledge was forbidden, but she was experienced in petty rebellion and bypassed the security lock-outs. And they thought Kryptonian encryption was so secure. That kind of information inside the crystal felt different within her mental interface, like nothing she'd ever felt before… but good, in its own strange way. She wanted more. Grunting with exertion, she forced her way deeper inside the crystal's database. So much knowledge she couldn't absorb it all consciously, but gluttonously she pulled it to the forefront of her communal interface. The crystal seemed to grow hotter, even shake a little. It felt good. The House of El was prominent within the files she sought, her name cross-indexed inside. She would learn more about herself.

The information she was taking stretched the inside of her mind, almost painfully so. This was no mere collection of data, not any type of data she'd ever encountered in her vast studies. An AI? They were prohibitively resource-intensive, to the point where only the Science Council members were allowed to work with one. Despite the pain of its entry, she kept going. She needed all of it.

Compilation of the data was a certainty. She could feel it approaching, her whole body quivering, her mind dead to everything but the fragments of code coming together like amino acids in a primordial soup. Kara churned, increasing her tempo. She rocked back and forth, bucking and biting her lower lip until a spasm rocked her. A second and third followed rapidly. More. A spasm a second. Each seeming more powerful than the last.

Kara began to tense and tighten. Sweat bathed her body, tickling her as it dripped off her flesh. Her eyes, no longer glazed, fixed heatedly on the black crystal as it seemed to swell. With a bright flash of light, she felt it empty its knowledge into her, then shrink as if it had actually lost physical mass. The crystal had reached its peak. Her white-knuckle grip on it went loose and she let the crystal drop to the mattress. It was now a milky white.

The contractions within Kara's mind began slowly to diminish in intensity, and a minute later she was gasping in the stunned aftermath, sated and unmoving, whimpering softly.

"Yes… yes," she said, now seeing the data for what it was. Like a solved puzzle, she fed the _perfectly geometrical shape_ mind-representation back into the waiting, willing crystal. She understood now. This was phase one of her mission, her holy mission to Earth, and she'd completed it.

"You have done well, my daughter," her father said, for who else but Kara Zor-El, last daughter of Krypton, could've resolved the seemingly random mass of algorithms into a virtual consciousness. "Now, your true test begins.

"The House of El lives on, Kara. And you shall be its truest scion."


	8. Fortunate Son

The nightmares weren't melodramatic replays of past events, but a feeling of dread and powerlessness. No details, just fear. Barbara didn't wake up screaming. She wasn't sure she woke up at all. The feeling persisted even after she stripped off her sweat-soaked nightgown and got under a warm shower. When she looked at her body, the ugly bruises she'd received stood out like an outbreak of some virulent disease. She quickly covered them up with a shower robe. Brushed her teeth, gargled mouthwash, considered make-up before deciding to go without.

When Barbara opened her closet to find something to wear, she almost screamed.

The costume she'd made last night hung in her closet like a criminal at the gallows, stirring organically in the breeze from the air duct. Barbara reached out to still it. It was leather, meant for her costume at the next Renfaire. She'd turned it into… armor, almost in a fugue state. Like a primal scream woven into existence.

Barbara checked her clock. It was early, everyone was still asleep. She tried on the costume. Her hair ruined the line of the skintight cowl, so she let out the headpiece in the back. Needed a cape (to keep people from ogling her butt if nothing else) but as was, she felt powerful. Even with bare feet, she felt powerful. She'd need boots, yellow to match the symbol and the belt… she'd need one of those too, maybe a spray-painted gun-belt from the army surplus store.

But… why? Thoughts of animal totems and avatars flowed through her head. _No!_ She shook her head. She was too old to play dress-up.

It wasn't until Barbara went downstairs for breakfast that she saw the invitation to Bruce Wayne's costume ball.

* * *

The leader of the Wonder Boys was a guy who claimed he was Batman's kid. He said his name was Justin Thomas, although he didn't say Batman's last name was Thomas. And he seemed a little scrawny to be the Bat's blood, with wiry hair and a neurotic face that scrunched up when he was displeased. His voice was usually genial, almost stuttering, but when he got real mad it became frigid, like there was a wild animal or something digging around in his guts. Jason liked him well enough…didn't like him well enough to sleep on the dude's couch, but unlike a lot of "philanthropists" Jason'd met, Justin never offered. Jason wasn't sure he slept anyway. Dude's eyes were permanently bloodshot when they weren't behind mirrored sunglasses.

Wonder Boys also didn't do half the shit people said they did. They weren't a bunch of ex-GIs who set bums on fire or a rape gang that chased down the no-speaka-engrish types. Mostly they just hung out, shooting dice and playing cards. Course, they did it on sidewalks and stopes where they could give the evil eye to any dealer or buyer that showed. Pukes ran like their butts were on fire soon as they saw the colors: Red on green. Wonder Boys.

When they weren't on patrol (Justin's words), they went to one of the for-hours and worked in groups. Bossman might gyp one guy, but not twelve. But that wasn't on the agenda for today. Today's mission: Some tycoon, name of William Earle, hadda plan to gentrify Gotham Park. No more shantytown by the lagoon. Parkers were xenophobes, which could be expected of anyone that banded together for survival. Even if they weren't any good to outsiders, they didn't deserve to get thrown out of their homes.

Gordon was saying he had better things to do than rouse a few bums, so Earle had brought in Luthor Security, a private army with badges. Rumor had it they were parking tear gas, and plenty of it. After seeing what a wonderland they'd made of Metropolis, wasn't any doubt Team Luthor was there as animal control 'steada riot control.

So they marched. Jason thought it was a bunch of reheated sixties bullshit, but it wasn't like it could do any harm. Besides, when the protest fell through and the riot batons came out, Justin would need good soldiers to fight back. Good soldiers always followed orders, even when it was boring.

Course, soldiers also got R&R. Jason skipped the fourth round of Creedence Clearwater Revival to find some peace and quiet. What he got was a water fountain where the chanting and slogans were only a distant pounding. After a nice, quenching drink, he noticed the guy sitting on a bench nearby. Kid, really, bout his age, mebbe thirteen or older, but dressed in a windbreaker 'n' striped tie like a private schoolie. Maybe Brentwood, up north. It would fit the whole "preppie padawan" look he was rocking. Schmuck was even wearing glasses. What, like mommy and daddy couldn't afford contacts? Nerd.

Still, the geek had good taste in reading material. His Gotham Gazette was flipped to Chloe Sullivan's column, _Wall of Weird_, formerly _Batwatch_. Supposedly they'd changed the name because of all the other freaks that were popping up, but Jason thought it had more to do with those wristwatches with the Bat on their clock faces.

Jay was in luck. Today's edition had a big picture of Sullivan to go with the story and she was sporting some fine Chloevage. Jason let out a wolf-whistle. Nerd-boy lowered the newspaper to look at him.

"Sorry, you're not my type."

Jason sat down next to him, effeminately crossing his legs and folding his hands. "Gold-digger. Relax, house boy, I was talking to the lady."

"You're not her type either."

"I'm every woman's type, Poindexter."

"If you're going to talk to me, at least get my name right. I'm Drake. Tim Drake. And you're unbelievable. Events are going on that are reshaping the world and all you can think about is sex. Batman and Superman, arguing. Aren't you the least bit curious what that's about?"

Jason pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, clapped the end of it to settle the nicotine. "Maybe it's dif'rent for you, Timmy, but a Supes-Bat lover's quarrel ain't gonna rock my world. Now Chloe Sullivan's world, that I'd like to rock.

Tim noted the brand of cigarettes. It was manufactured with the cheapest of tar. Not that it took a detective to figure this one out, but every little bit helped. "You like being poor?"

Deadpan, Jason rolled the cigarette between his lips with the end of his tongue, until it was hanging from the corner of his mouth. "What do I look like to you, the fucking Buddha? Course not."

Tim resolutely folded his newspaper closed. "You don't learn to think with the big head, you're never gonna stop being poor."

Jason lit a match off Tim's cheek. Tim started and cocked his head at him, the flame between them.

"Yeah, I get an A on the multi-choice, they make me a real, middle-class suburbanite boy." Jason brought the match back to light his cigarette, then shook it out. "Jesus Christ, the teachers must love you."

"Least I go to school."

"Least my little head gets a hat once in a while."

"Was that an euphemism?"

Jason blew smoke in his face. "No, I was talking 'bout sex."

The newspaper waved between them, knocking the cigarette smoke away. "I get plenty of action."

"Which base?"

"All of 'em."

"Where?"

"Backseat of my dad's car."

"Whazzer name?"

"Ariana."

"Liar."

"She's Russian."

Finished with his cigarette, Jason flicked the butt away. "You should've said Roy or Conner. Would've believed ya."

A thin tendril of smoke was still oozing out of the cigarette butt. Tim stood up, folding the newspaper under his arm, and stepped on the cigarette. He gave Jason a hard look.

"Haven't you ever gotten the feeling that something big is happening, _coming_?"

Jason just looked at him. "The biggest thing that will ever happen to us is dying." Then he shrugged. "Well, me, anyway. Maybe you'll marry Jessica Simpson, I don't know."

"Hey, you Jason Todd?" a gruff voice asked from behind.

Jason looked over his shoulder. A solidly-built man of about fifty was marching toward them, a protest sign slung over his shoulder. His hair was shot through with gray, as was his thick mustache. His midsection was doughty, but the set of his shoulders and the way he carried himself marked that he had been at least somewhat athletic before going to seed.

Tim, who'd been slouching back on his heels, jerked to attention in the man's presence.

"Justin wants you," the man continued, gesturing with his sign. "Tim, what're you doing lazing around here? The media just got there, we need every warm body in the picket line."

Tim jerked his head up and down, then climbed over the bench to accompany him back to the protest. Jason growled at him, then twitched up to follow them. He fell into lockstep with Tim, who was trailing behind his father.

"You're here to save the park?"

"My dad's idea," Tim said, gesturing forward. "Liberal street cred."

Jason grabbed his hand and gave it a quick, jiving shake. "Jason Todd."

"Still Tim Drake."

"But now I care." Jason walked past him, turning to address him before they hit the protest crowd. "Don't get to know people like me. Not if you want to stay Tim Drake."

Tim watched him disappear in the crowd. After a moment, he broke from his father's side and ran after him. Jason was easy to find by the patched army jacket he wore, a size or two too big for him, the sleeves folded up to let his hands out, clad in fingerless gloves.

"Whaddya want, my number?" Jason barked.

Tim held out the newspaper. "Get to know your world. Consider it a favor."

Jason looked from the newspaper to Tim, then reluctantly took it. "I'm only taking this for the funnies. After that, it's TP."

"Whatever."

"**Tim, goddamnit, I turn my back for five seconds…**"

Tim looked over his shoulder. "Gotta go. And you know there are places, right? That help people like…"

"Stop right there."

"Tim, come on!" Jack Drake shouted.

"So that's what they call a family these days," Jason said as Tim went back. He looked at the newspaper's headline before jamming it into his jacket. "Must be nice."

* * *

"You still got your wallet," Jack Drake asked as soon as Tim returned.

Tim considered turning out his pockets, just to prove the point, but instead he just patted his back pocket. "He went ten whole minutes without robbing someone. Downright polite of him."

Jack threw up his hands in surrender. "I get it, I get it. You just can't be too careful in this city, with these people. Maybe it's not politically correct, but it's a fact." He reached into his pocket. "As long as you're growing a social consciousness, maybe you can go as Oliver Twist. Mr. Wayne just gave me this."

He held out an invitation to Bruce Wayne's costume ball.

"Dana's even getting some time off from the hospital, so the whole family's going. I hope that includes you."

Tim's eyes lit up as an idea occurred to him. "I get to go as whoever I want?"

Jack smiled warmly. "Just so long as it's not Madonna."

"One Halloween and you never let me forget it!"

"Oh, I'm young, I've got lots of Timothy-embarrassing years left in me. C'mere!" Jack grabbed Tim and gave him a noogie. "Just wait until you start dating!"

* * *

Dick had that familiar feeling, that familiar skin-don't-fit feeling. He felt like he could burst out of his clothes and rocket into the sky. The bus was grinding down the street so slow and if only he had enough money to buy a good, _fast_ car… and keep it fueled…

At last, the bus clunked to a stop outside the Lake Gotham Housing District. Artless monoliths of housing complexes rose up around the polluted shores of Lake Gotham, its sole redeeming feature the tourist trap miniaturized version of the Lady of Justice that was erected in the middle of the lake. For some environmental reason, the sludge-like water now came up to her ankles. From the bus, Dick could see her torch down the long, straight shoot of a main street.

"I'll walk from here," Dick said. He was the only person getting off.

The sidewalk was cracked, as if the decades-old concrete had developed a network of varicose veins. Tufts of grass shot through the cracks. They brushed Dick's sneakers as he ran. His parents had told him to be home thirty minutes after school. With roadwork and traffic, the bus ride took twenty minutes. If he took a short-cut, he could make it home from the bus-stop in five minutes. That just left the phone booth.

He skidded to a stop in front of it. The glass was spray-painted black where it wasn't broken. With some effort, Dick unstuck the door. Unsurprisingly, there were wild animals inside. Dick jumped back as a murder of crows flew out of the phone booth. Thankfully, the handset was undamaged except for some chipping in the black enamel. Dick dropped his coins in the slot and dialed Babs's cell. On the fourth ring, she picked up.

"Barb… Barbara Gordon's phone," she said haltingly, like she hadn't expected to use her voice that day and had thrown it on in a hurry.

"Barbara? It's Dick."

Her voice warmed a little. "Oh. Hey."

"I know what happened. One of the guys at school has a police-band radio. Babs, I'm so sorry."

There was silence on the other end, except for the hoarse strain of her breathing. Higher than before.

"I told him not to tell anyone else. You can tell the school whenever, or not at all. Either's cool."

He could tell her throat was dry. "Thanks."

"So, you wanna talk about it?"

"What do you think?"

There was another long silence as Dick's precious seconds ticked away.

"Why are you calling from a pay-phone?" Barbara asked.

"The 'rents took away my cell-phone privileges. I have to go straight home after school. But I can still see you in class, between classes, lunch…"

"Daddy's insisting I take the week off from school. Pretty funny, huh?"

Dick didn't laugh. "Baby, I can't tell you how much I want to be there for you…"

"You are there for me." Barbara said, as vehement as he'd ever heard her. Dick's clutch on the phone tightened. "Just hearing your voice… it helps so much."

"I'll bum a cell-phone from one of the freshmen. Call you every minute."

Over the phone line, Barbara sniffled. "Could you get my homework for me too? I don't wanna fall behind."

"My pleasure. Anything else I can do?"

"Just… be you."

Dick squeezed his eyes shut. There were a lot of things he was trying not to think about. "I'll try."

"These last few weeks have been—" she trailed off.

"Yeah, me too. I gotta go. You're the coolest person I've ever met," he added.

"Thanks."

"Gotta go."

"Bye."

"I swear I'll call you."

"No big."

* * *

Shaking off his umbrella, Oswald Cobblepot got into his limousine. It was white as ivory and long as his sins.

That goddamn Batman! Again! That caped clod had intercepted a shipment of designer "party favors," risking the patronage of his more elite clientele… the social high-class to which Cobblepot aspired.

He tapped the hook of his umbrella on the divider. "Driver, home."

The limo slid into motion. Oswald had once dismissed Batman as an obstacle… the vigilante was good for tourism and made people feel safe. Safe people asked less questions. But now the Bat was interfering with his business, which could get undue attention coming from Cobblepot's boss.

The limo sped through an intersection.

"Driver, you missed a turn."

The limo didn't slow down. In fact, it sped up. Cobblepot's idiot chauffeur was humming zippily.

"Maury, what's wrong with you!" Oswald cried.

The black glass divider slid open, revealing the familiar chauffeur's uniform and the very unfamiliar man within. His skin was drained of whatever color it might once have had until it resembled nothing so much as the polished white of a death's head. Toxic green hair poked out from beneath the cap, which the man tipped to Cobblepot.

"Maury couldn't make it on account of a slight case of death. I'm your new driver. Road trip!"

He stomped on the gas. Cobblepot was slammed back in his seat by the sudden acceleration. Through the sunroof he saw them pass under the red stoplight. Car horns exploded in angry protest.

"Who the devil are you?" Cobblepot demanded, scrambling to buckle his seatbelt.

"Who the devil? Who, the devil… snappy, but taken." He smiled slowly, displaying a truly gruesome grin – one that seemed to stretch his face to the breaking point and show every tooth in his shark-like maw. "Voltaire said that God was a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh… I'm the man who laughs, the finger in the French fries, the wild card in the deck— the Joker! Pleased to meet ya, Pengy!"

Cobblepot huffed disdainfully. "I am not a penguin. I am a human being!"

"Oh, like that says anything in _this_ town. 'Human' is a rather loose definition these days," Joker said, mock-sadly… even pouting. "All those freaks out and about, how's an honest crook like yourself to feel safe? Ooh, jaywalker."

There was a sharp, sudden thump just before the Joker stomped on the brakes. Cobblepot was thrown forward, gagging on the seatbelt before it threw him back against his seat. The Joker leapt up in his seat to try to see over the hood.

"Must've been my imagination," he said, scratching his head. "On we go."

"No, wait---"

The car jolted upward twice.

"Speed bumps: They're getting bigger each year." The Joker howled laughter, banging his fist on the horn. The honking gave a bass line to his insane cackle.

"You're out of your mind," Cobblepot said casually.

"I'm profoundly in it, actually, although I must confess to a few bats in my belfry. But that's a point in my favor! Send a loon to catch a loon!"

"What are you talking about, you colossal cretin?"

The Joker threw the limousine into a dime turn, running through a crosswalk. A pedestrian's legs were knocked out from under him. He rolled onto the car hood, up the windshield, across the roof, and finally landed on the trunk. Cobblepot gnashed his teeth as he saw the victim cling to the rear pinchweld. Frowning, the Joker adjusted the rearview mirror, then stepped on the brakes. The pedestrian was rammed into the windshield, cracking it and his head. Joker stepped on the gas and the pedestrian rolled off.

"Batman!" the Joker continued, as if there'd been no interruption. "What else is _worth_ talking about? You want him, I want him, why not split him 50/50? With my brains, charisma, daring and vision; coupled with your… money, the dork knight doesn't stand a chance!"

"And why should I hire you instead of someone…"

"With the toy still in their Happy Meal?"

"Quite so."

"Well, for starters, I'll kill you if you don't. Second, because I might cry."

The Joker sniffled and made doe-eyes at Cobblepot. Then leveled a gun at him. His voice was deathly serious. "So how's about it, Ozzy? Shall we kill the Batman?"


	9. Even By XRay Vision, You Won't Be Seen

At least one thing hadn't changed while Clark had been gone. The Daily Planet was the same then as it had been since the turn of the last century, a beacon of hope and truth for the world. Sure, computers had replaced typewriters and the chairs were more ergonomic, but at its heart, the DP would never change.

When Clark got off the elevator, the entire staff seemed to be holding its breath.

"What's up?" he asked Jimmy.

The photographer shushed Clark and jerked his head to Perry's office. The rest of the newsroom was straining to hear, Lois with a stethoscope against the wall. Clark barely lifted his hearing to detect a voice from the past. A charming, brilliant voice; so very different from the Lex he'd confronted before. It was enough to make him fumble his Smallville Ledger mug. The crash was explosive, making everyone in the room look at him. It also neatly coincided with Lex sweeping out of Perry's office.

The chief followed him out, the old bloodhound clamped down. When he got angry, Perry could rattle glass, and he was _furious._ He pointed the unlit cigar in his fist at Lex's back, driving his words home. "I wouldn't sell the Planet to you, Luthor, for all the vinyl in Graceland!"

Lex muttered something about the propaganda division of an alien invasion under his breath, audible only to Clark's superhearing, then turned to Perry. "People in my way tend to have two choices. Stand at my side or be paved over. You've chosen the latter. Good luck with that."

Lex stormed out, long experience letting Clark see the anger coming off him like radiation from decaying uranium. Involuntarily, Clark felt himself turning to follow Lex's exit. Then his legs going, one foot in front of the other.

The hallway by the elevator was empty. Lex, in his dark suit and green tie, couldn't have been more of a contrast to the earthy brown of Clark's suit. Clark's was rumpled, with the elbows wearing thin, while Lex's looked like it hadn't been worn until that morning.

"Don't do it," Clark said, somewhere lost between the larger-than-life baritone of Superman and the steely half-nebbishness of his own youth. "You've got enough of Metropolis in your hand, leave the Daily Planet alone."

Lex scowled as he turned. "Clark… Kent? My memory's actually taxed; it's been a while. You've aged well."

Clark's face was set, unamused.

"Lighten up, Clark. I remember when you weren't all business." The elevator doors opened. "Ah, finally. Come on, I don't have time for you to take the stairs, fitness freak."

"What?"

"You've clearly got something to say and I'm scheduled for lunch. So, come on."

Clark wanted to say he had nothing to say to Lex. He wanted to. Instead, he stepped into the elevator and descended.

On the way down, Lex got on the phone and told someone named Mercy to cancel with someone named Tess.

"Who's Tess?" Clark asked.

"Nobody. Not even a supermodel, just the regular kind."

"I never thought you were the womanizing type."

"No, I'm looking for a deep emotional connection, just over in an hour or so. It's a huge time-saver." Lex pressed the ground floor button again. "I apologize, the stairs would've been quicker."

"What happened to patience being a virtue?"

"I don't like enclosed spaces. Superman once welded me inside a bank vault for seven hours while he dealt with a few bombs." Lex's voice shrank like something was eating away at it. "It was dark in there. Weird noises."

"Oh." Clark pushed his glasses up. "Well, I'm sure he would've freed you sooner if he could."

"Stop looking for the best in people, Clark, it's naïve. He did it to punish me. Judge, jury, and executioner. Just like with my father."

Clark would've given anything to press the button and get off on the nearest floor. But that would leave Lex alone.

* * *

Lex put on a big, friendly smile as he walked through the streets of Metropolis – "Why would anyone want to fly above _this_?" – but all Clark could see were the armies of dark-suited bodyguards surrounding them and the cameras standing silent guard on every street corner. They had Lexcorp logos on their black casing.

"Why all the cameras?" he asked.

"The League of Shadows. It's a terrorist organization… they were behind the fear toxin attacks in Gotham all those years ago. They blew up the Emperor Building while Superman was…" Lex paused drolly. "Detained. With him gone, someone had to step up to protect Metropolis. These cameras, the Team Luthor security force, and Lex Tower built right on top of ground zero. I let them know that Metropolis and the world wouldn't cower before some personality cult out to destroy our way of life."

"And the cameras help?"

"Superman has his X-ray vision, I have mine."

"People just… put up with it?"

"You'd be surprised what they put up with. In 1984, Big Brother was a tyrant. In 2008, it's a game show. How do you feel about Chinese food?"

* * *

Clark wasn't expecting to be flown to China, but a pagoda on top of a skyscraper was still a bit much. He recognized the hostesses and serving customs as authentic, down to the jade tea they were served. The two men took off their jackets and sat cross-legged on mats, facing each other.

"It's funny," Lex said. "I remember us being so close, then we just sort of… drifted apart." He sipped. "Well, not funny so much as… What've you been doing lately?"

"Traveling. Tibet, Africa… trying to find myself."

"Did you?"

"No." He toyed with memories of Lois, picking at a scab. "I feel more lost than ever."

They talked for what seemed like hours, about Smallville, about the past, even about Chloe. Lex's charmingly tiny smile drizzled down into a somnambulistic tightening of the lips, even as Clark let his clenched jaw relax into almost a stupor. A pleased one. The only thing surprising him more than his own pining for the old days was how wistful Lex was, how gleefully he recounted starting his own business, making his first million, gazing up at the stars with Clark. Even then, Clark had been looking for a red star that no longer existed. He never had figured out what Lex was looking for.

"And to think I believed you a simple farmboy. You were far rarer than that."

Clark raised an eyebrow. "Simple farmboy?"

"You're a damn good reporter, Clark. And you're not like the others, with their wars and their small-mindedness. You think. You feel. You're awake."

"I'm hardly alone in that," Clark said, with a forced chuckle.

"You'd be surprised. I know why you feel lost, Clark. I know why _everyone_ feels lost. There is no great depression to overcome, there is no great war to win, there is no great undertaking to accomplish. All our battles have been fought and won, if not by our forefathers, than by Superman. We have nothing worth dying for. And a man with nothing worth dying for has nothing worth living for."

Lex was wrong. Clark had someone worth living for. He just couldn't live with her. "And what would you die for?" Clark asked coolly.

"Earth's safety and security," Lex said; the most obvious thing in the world.

A disparaging noise made its way out of Clark's throat. "You should be Superman's ally instead of his… detractor." Clark's voice would've broken on 'nemesis.'

"And you should be in my employ, not that of a tired old fool like White." Lex had always been good at deflection, but Clark didn't miss that he equated friendship with employment. Submission. "Newspapers are dead anyway. I'll give you a blog on Lex News and twice whatever pocket change the Planet is paying you."

"I can't work for you, Lex."

Leg's gregariousness had always been a little off-putting, a little faked. The real Lex's silence was infinitely more chilling. He broke it with a polite smile. "Why not?"

"There's a darkness in you, Lex. You indulge it far too much."

Lex stood abruptly. "There's a war coming, Clark. I can't protect you if you're on the wrong side."

Clark shook his head, grabbing Lex's hand. "There doesn't have to be a war. If you would just… just talk with Superman, a honest conversation taken at face value, I'm sure…"

"Absolute power corrupts absolutely. So what do you think superpowers do? It's the way of the world, Clark. The strong prey on the weak. And Superman is so very strong…"

"What about your power, Lex? What do you think it's done to you?"

That wintery Luthor silence took hold of Lex once more. He calmly brushed Clark's hand away.

"There is a storm coming, Mr. Kent. You should stay indoors."

* * *

There was a sharply delineated pain to having two faces, or two masks, which amounted to the same thing in Clark's world. In his life, taking off his mask gave way to another mask. It made him feel like a hypocrite every time he chided Bruce for living alone in that fortress of his, not letting anyone in except for that enabling butler. At least Bruce had a butler. He just had his father's ghost, sending him down Hamlet's footprints.

The pain was this: Kal-El met everyone twice. He could hold no illusions about his place in their hearts, because he saw how they reacted to him one way and another. He knew there were people who would like him if he were more assertive, even if he really felt like he was humble and modest. And now, paradoxically, he knew someone who spat in one face while the other received… what?

Friendship? Brotherhood? Or just enough rope to hang himself. That was Lex's stock-in-trade, after all.

The agony persisted as Superman did his rounds, while Clark Kent sat alone at home, watching TV or reading a book or whatever it was his co-workers thought he did. Everyone loved Superman, but Superman wasn't him. It was some abstract ideal, someone for humanity to project, imprint themselves on. He was a symbol, but symbols didn't have fingerprints, breaths, skin cells or follicles. And he knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that people loved him better without those trappings of his personality.

There was, of course, one woman who knew him as both Clark and Superman. His mother had known him before the discovery of his powers had fragmented him, and Lois had rejected Clark for Superman when the choice had actually presented itself, but Chloe preferred his subtle sense of humor to his bombastic speeches on public safety. And of course, he'd alienated her too. Alienated. Funny little verb.

Kal-El let his senses stretch out one more time, casting a net over the Earth. There were no disasters large enough to demand his attention. Contrary to popular belief, there were long stretches of time when he could just… relax. Unless he wanted to foil every mugger in the world, and that way laid Zod. Clark well-remembered the accounts of how Zod had let his minions loose on criminals the world over. The body count had rivaled some epidemics.

"Good night, Earth," he said, not that anyone could hear him in the vacuum of space. He gave the old girl one last fly-by, soaking up the unfiltered sun before he headed home..

* * *

It was just after dark when Clark showed up at Chloe's doorstep. Her landlady buzzed up to tell her she had a 'gentleman caller'. It'd been a while since Chloe could say that. She let Clark in and as soon as he was through the door it was like a weight came off his shoulders. He smiled widely and set down a plate of cookies.

"Had a run-in with an old friend. It sort of put me in mind of the past…" There was a little snowglobe Smallville contained in that word, 'past', and the way he looked at her. "I couldn't stand leaving things like that with you."

Chloe hugged him. "Aw, I can never stay mad at you." She stepped back, a bit chagrinned. "I'll get some milk."

"I can—"

"No, I _don't_ want you to see my kitchen."

"X-ray vision, Chlo."

"You're too nice to use it. If you weren't, I'd be wearing much nicer—_lead_, lead underwear." She quickly made her escape into the little kitchen of her apartment to pour them two big glasses of milk, casting a longing look to the six-pack in her refrigerator. "You mind eighty-sixing the glasses? They're a little insulting."

"Huh? Oh." When she came back into the living room, Clark's glasses were hanging from his collar. "Sorry. Force of habit."

She made a breezy gesture. "No big. So, come on, out with it…"

"Out with what?"

"There must be some problem you need help solving. What is it?"

"I just wanted to see you."

Chloe sighed as she sat back in her chair. "Clark, if I believed that…"

"It's Lois…" Clark stood up, walking the apartment as if trying to keep out of Chloe's eyeline. "I'm sorry, I wanted to… find time to be friends again before we got to her."

"Clark, it's okay. She'll always be the number one woman in your life. You love her."

"But I hurt her."

_You hurt a lot of people, Clark._ "She'll forgive you."

"She wrote an article about how the world doesn't need me. **She got a Pulitzer for it.**"

Chloe walked up to him. There was a sordid feel to it as she took hold of his broad shoulders, something about the way he remained carefully motionless that hurt worse than any other reaction, but the way he exhaled slowly…

"I really would like to go out sometime, once I have everything sorted out. Just get some buffalo wings, watch a movie, _something_."

"That'd be nice," Chloe agreed.

"But this thing with Lois… it's like she's left me behind. Like the whole world's left me behind."

"I'm still here." _Aren't I enough?_

"God bless you for that." He patted the hand she had resting on his left shoulder.

"Maybe if you apologized to Lois… in person, I mean."

"You think it would make a difference?"

"She loved you, Clark. Of course it would."

"Then I should probably go." He turned. "Enjoy the cookies."

"I will. Oh, don't forget." She plucked his glasses from his collar and put them on his face. "Wouldn't do to have people see Superman coming and going from my apartment. What would the neighbors think?"

* * *

Kara watched as Clark walked out of Chloe's apartment, traveled a few blocks, then ducked down an alley and emerged as Superman. Interesting, how he went to the Earth female for counsel. Very interesting.

* * *

_Don't look at them_, Lois told herself. _There's a reason Perry wouldn't publish them. Just chalk it up to nostalgia and call it a mulligan and for God's sake don't compare apples to oranges and men to supermen._ Pointless, stupid, biased. How was she supposed to tell the world what she felt about the space-flight disaster when she didn't know what she felt? She felt a little bit of everything. And outside of Superman, she felt nothing. Numbness. Shock. The only cure was to remind herself how she _had_ felt.

The files were in a locked drawer in her desk. She didn't keep the key anywhere melodramatic like on a chain around her neck. In fact, she had lost it. She had to pick the lock with a paperclip to open it. The rollers would've needed oiling, if she ever planned to open the drawer again. Then again, she had said that when she first locked it.

Inside were the hard copies of articles never published and long since scoured from her hard drive. Lois didn't need to read the text; it was burned into her brain. All she needed to do was read the article titles to bring it all rushing back.

**"WHERE IS HE?"**

"WHY'D YOU LEAVE US?"

"COME BACK."

And the one she'd never even shown to Perry, just dashed out on Richard's typewriter and thrown into the drawer that back then didn't have a lock and cried the rest of the night: **"GOODBYE SUPERMAN."**

Lois set them out across the desk in chronological order, a journalistic record of grief and loss the only way she knew how to express it. A strong breeze stirred them, rattled her pencils, put out the cigarette she shouldn't have been smoking. Lois took a deep breath and reminded herself it couldn't be him, and then reminded herself it could be. She turned.

Superman was on her veranda.

She closed her robe over her nightgown. In the old days, she wouldn't have. Not to seduce him, but just because she was so comfortable in his presence. Now, it was hard to forget how alien he was. What human could leave someone he loved and not say a word?

He walked toward her and, with a helpless expression, tapped on the glass. Like one of Pavlov's dogs, she bounded up to let him in. Gave him a giant smile, in fact. She hated herself for it, but it felt too good to regret.

Lois had a million questions and a billion things to say, but the only thing she could think to say was "How'd you find me?"

He pretended not to notice her tears as she hid her face and wiped them away; she loved him for it. "I'll always know where you are." He frowned, probably realizing how stalkerish that had come out.

Lois slapped him as hard as she could, and though by the pain in her hand she might as well have flicked a toothpick at him, the hurt look in his eyes told her she'd done damage. "You _left_!" she said viciously, shaking off the pained throbbing in her hand. "You didn't even say goodbye…"

All that power and he couldn't even meet her eyes. "I had to go."

"Krypton?" She nodded at his shock. "It wasn't even that hard to figure out. Astronomers find a signal and you start packing your bags. It was easier to believe that than some nut with Kryptonite…" She sniffled. "If Lex hadn't been in prison, I…" She sniffled again, calming herself. "I understand. And I can forgive that. But I'll never forgive you for the five years I spent looking up at the sky, not knowing if you were dead or alive. Star reporter like me and the one thing I couldn't figure out was what mattered most…" She was openly crying now, digging through the drawers of her desk for a pack of tissues. Then she saw the articles, still laid out in the open, and shoveled them into the drawer. She shut it firmly.

Superman sat down on her couch, his head in his hands. Lois had never seen him so weighted down. "I have no right to ask for your forgiveness. I feel I owe you—all of you—an explanation."

"On the record?"

He looked up, nodded dolefully.

"I'll get my tape recorder."

* * *

The plate of cookies Clark had bought were just starting to prove a serious temptation to Chloe when something slammed against the window. She turned, both grateful for the distraction and sorry for the poor bird that had just gotten a nosejob, to see that there was a girl standing on her fire escape. She was blonde, coltish, the kind of body made for cheerleading and swimsuit modeling. Those cookies weren't looking so good now, not with the comparative junk in Chloe's trunk. And she was knocking on Chloe's window with her palm, not her knuckles.

Chloe held up a finger, 'wait a minute', and grabbed her taser from her handbag. She stuck it in her pocket before she went to open the window. "Who are you? How'd you get up here?"

The girl was dressed like the air was maybe fifty degrees warmer than it was, with jean-cut-offs that had suspenders running over her red tubetop. And up close, Chloe could see that her eyes had a very familiar color. "My name is Kara Zor-El. I'm Kal's… cousin. I got up here by jumping. Can I come in?... please?"

Chloe backed up in disbelief. Kara took that as invitation. She floated gracefully through the window, at least until her foot caught on the windowsill. She recovered and rewarded herself with a tightly controlled smile as she landed. "Chloe Sullivan? You're a friend of Clark, correct?"

"I know a lot of Clarks," Chloe said. She'd been burned one too many times by people trying to root out Clark's secret.

"The Clark who can do this." Kara's eyes went red and a sharp flash of light shot out of them. It punched through Clark's wall before it terminated. With an embarrassed squeal, Kara covered her mouth with her hand. "Oh, _Rao!_ Sorry, I didn't mean to do that! Don't tell Clark…"

"I won't, I…" Even as she put out the fire with a blanket, Chloe boggled at Kara. "You're a Kryptonian?"

"Yes. Kal found me on his voyage."

"And he just… kept you under his hat?"

Kara frowned. "He didn't… oh, you're using an euphemism." She laughed suddenly. "Imagine, me under his hat!"

Chloe shared a laugh with her. Something about Kara's enthusiasm was contagious.

"Can I get you something to drink?"

"Do you have any chocolate milk?"

"I could make some."

Kara beamed.

* * *

Chloe cooked their hot cocoa on the stove, like her mother had done before the asylum. Already her mind was flittering through interview questions, more research for the article she'd never write, never win a Pulitzer for. _'I Spent The Night With Superman'? P-shaw. Try 'I Grew Up With Superman'._

"I'd like to know about Clark," Kara said. She was making her way through the kitchen, examining everything with open curiosity. Currently, she was inspecting the sharpness of a butcher knife.

"Kara, be careful with—"

Startled, Kara drove it into her finger, crunching the blade. "Oops! I'll buy you another one, promise!"

"It's okay. Honestly, I'm just happy you… exist. Maybe now Clark can finally feel like he belongs."

Kara frowned, as if she'd just scented something foul. "You mean he didn't before. Is that why he left?"

"Partly." Chloe became greatly interested in serving the hot cocoa. "You'd probably be better off asking Clark."

"I have. He won't let me in. He's so alone and…" Kara bit her lip, agony harshening her face. "I don't know how to help him."

Chloe pressed a mug of hot cocoa into Kara's hand. Seeing the teenager in front of her, weighted down by a world not her own, took Chloe back all the way to Smallville.

She sat down at the kitchen table, gesturing for Kara to sit across from her. The table was still littered with the remains of both breakfast and lunch and that evening's Gotham Gazette, but there was enough room for Kara to put her elbows down and rest her head in her hands. Her fingers were curled into fists; she looked at Chloe with slightly trembling excitement/intensity.

"Clark… never truly felt like he belonged. It was worse after Zod, but even before then… he couldn't be both Clark and Superman, so he had to push people away in both identities. Never letting people get too close, never letting them know the real Clark. Or Kal, if you prefer."

"I do," Kara said, raising the mug to her lips.

"Don't drink that, it's still…"

"Hmm?"

"Never mind. Three Kryptonians, led by a nutball named General Zod, took over the Earth. He had a good old-fashioned reign of terror."

"And Superman stopped him," Kara said from a very faraway place.

"Yes. That's not the whole story. You've heard of Lois?"

"Clark spoke… very highly of her," Kara said carefully.

Chloe lowered her eyes, exhaled in a rush. "He gave up his powers to be with her."

"Great Krypton!" Kara exclaimed, spewing chocolate milk.

Chloe wiped the other woman's chin with that morning's crossword puzzle. She was finished with it anyway. "Tell me about it. I can only imagine how happy he was, but he had to give that up to fight Zod. After that, every time he saw Lois, it must've been a reminder of what he lost."

"Old wounds reopened… why not simply leave Metropolis? Not see her?"

"You've never met Lois, have you?" Chloe asked dryly.

Kara shook her head.

"Clark tries to live up to both his Kryptonian and human heritage. But Lois only loves Superman. Clark is invisible to her. Can you imagine standing beside someone, day after day, but when they look at you…" Chloe's voice caught in her throat. Her eyes narrowed as she looked into the unnatural shade of blue in Kara's irises, wistfully, longingly. "But when they see you…"

Kara took Chloe's hand gently. "You love him, don't you?"

Chloe expelled the breath she didn't know she'd been holding with a blend of relief and renewed pain. "He's very easy to fall in love with."

"Does he know?"

"He can't," Chloe said vehemently. "Clark needs a friend, not a lover. And it would never work out between us."

"Old wounds?"

Chloe nodded, a slow and solemn thing. "He blames himself for what happened to me."

Kara was obviously curious about that, but she was more concerned with her next question: "Do you?"

Chloe looked up sharply from her downcast silence. "He always runs, Kara. No one can ever know, but he's alive because he ran from Krypton. And he took that lesson to heart. When the chips are down, he runs. His father's death, Lois… me… I shouldn't even be telling you this, but just being able to say it…"

Kara nodded. "Thank you for your time."

"You're leaving? We've barely even…"

Kara was gone in a blur of air and, later, a booming sound. She left an empty mug.

* * *

"Extra, extra, read all about it!" Jimmy's voice rung through the Daily Planet newsroom the next morning, as clear and loud as any rooster. "Lois Lane roasts Superman! Man of Steel is Man of Heel!"

Lois, who'd been standing next to him during his extra-loud proclamation, cleaned her ear out. "Jimmy, if there were any justice in the world, you would've been born when bow-ties were in fashion."

Jimmy shrugged piteously, as if he had considered the problem and come to the same conclusion.

Lois kept moving, figuring a moving target would make it harder for her fellow reporters to single her out for criticism or—worse yet—praise.

Unfortunately, Jimmy had her scent. "A little hard on Big S, don't you think? I think I can see Superman's ears burning from here."

"Eh?" Clark said, looking up sharply from his typewriter.

"Nothing, Mr. Kent."

Richard left Perry White's office, doing a little soft-shoes routine. "Lois Lane has done it again!" He danced over to her with an extra-wide grin and gave her a passionate kiss. The instant before their lips met, Lois thought she saw Clark giving the evil eye to Richard's back, but then her eyes were closed and all she could think of was Richard.

"I just wish your uncle had let me go with my original title."

Richard raised an eyebrow. "'Why the world still doesn't need Superman'? I agree with him. After the space-flight, it would look ungrateful."

"I'm not ungrateful." Lois put a hand to her chest. "Who says I'm ungrateful? I just want to know if I'm supposed to be grateful for the five years he wasn't here."

"Would you rather he never came back?" Jimmy asked.

Lois and Richard gave him identical cold stares.

Lois spoke softly. "Everyone's wondering how we can ever trust Superman after how he abandoned us. I just put it into print. I hadn't, someone else would have."

"But then it would've been someone else saying it."

Clark. Lois stalked over to his desk and sat down on it. "What do you think, Kent? Was I too hard on the poor widdle Kryptonian?"

Clark stared so hard at his keyboard that he could've bored holes in it. His machine-gun typing had slowed to hunt and peck. "I'm sure I wouldn't know."

"Come on. _The_ event of the 21st century and you don't have an opinion? What kind of newsman are you?"

"I just report the facts. My personal feelings don't enter into it." His typing had regained its momentum.

"And mine do?"

Richard and Jimmy vacated the area. Everyone else stared very intently at their work.

"Why would they? Superman's just a story to you." Clark pounded the keys. "That's why you're winning a Pulitzer."

Lois forced Clark to meet her eyes with a hand bluntly lifting his chin. "You didn't answer my question, smart guy. Am I being too hard on him?"

Clark's eyes narrowed behind his thick glasses, then moved downward. "What he did was unforgivable. You don't owe him anything. I… I'm sure he realizes that."

Brought up short, Lois patted him on the cheek. "Thanks. At least someone gets me."

Clark went back to his typing. It was only after she'd long since left and no one was paying attention to him again that he took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. "More than you'll ever know."

* * *

As Kara returned to Kansas, she turned over Chloe's words in her mind. From the Sullivan woman's account, Kal-El had indeed been contaminated by Earth. How much so remained to be seen. But Kara had a feeling that the deciding factor would be why Kal had stood against the great Zod.


	10. The Party

Haley's Circus cast a shadow.

When the show ended and the magic was gone, there was a place where the freaks went. A place where they weren't outsiders. They smoked cheap cigars and drank bootleg liquor, played dirty pool and danced rowdy jigs in Slaughter Swamp, where the air ran hot.

Just a ways beyond the buildings that skirted the boundary between man and nature was a hut that had stood over Slaughter Swamp like a warning ever since a Dutch fur trader had put it there. Legend had it that long since spider-webs had replaced the animal hides stretched out on the front porch, runaway slaves had used the stilt-supported house as a way station. Maybe they had left the voodoo objects that dotted the house, linked together by dust and creepers like particularly juicy flies in a web. Or maybe it was just Gotham teens trying to scare each other with Halloween decorations. The Joker liked the ambiance either way, but it had no personality. It was just dark and gloomy. Kinda like Gotham. Both needed a big smile.

There was an ax outside, stuck in a tree stump. Joker hacked at a wall with it. Each pair of hits formed a tooth in a big toothy grin. Then he used the blunt end of the ax to hammer in eyes and left the ax hanging out of the wall to form a nose. That was a start. Mentally, Joker began to draw up blueprints for a Ha-Ha-hacienda. He'd rule Gotham from there. Maybe have an oval office. An ovoid office? Oblong?

The Joker dusted some wood fragments off his dressing gown.

One of the gorillas Penguin had hired for him came in through one of the walls that a tree had grown through, rattling the floorboards with each step. The Joker pivoted to greet him.

"Got your suit from the dry cleaners, boss." He held up a pressed purple tuxedo inside plastic.

The Joker observed it, canting his head to one side and putting his eyeball out to stare at it closer. "Hmm… needs a little something." He snatched a swamp flower out of a vase and held it up to the lapel. "Perfection! Moe, you've done it again!"

"My name's Artie."

Joker mussed his hair, close-cropped with male pattern baldness. "It's Moe now. Find two of your best men and put 'em in the wigs. And make sure it's Curly and Larry! I can't abide Curly-Joe!"

"Sure thing, boss."

Joker snatched the dry cleaning from him. "Hmmm…" He held the suit over himself. "Think it brings out my eyes?" His wildly dilated eyes blinked at Moe.

"Uh… sure thing, boss."

"Not a very wide vocabulary, eh?" Joker did a swirl, swinging the tuxedo around like a dance partner. "Oh, it's gonna be a hot time in the old town tonight, my friend! Hand me my make-up."

Moe blinked in confusion. Cobblepot paid him enough to put up with one of the… _eccentrics_, but hell, with a mug like that, what would anyone need with make-up? Then he saw a thin round table topped with chintz. There was a circular saw, a handgun, and a make-up case on top of it. The circular saw was dripping blood off the tabletop and down to the floor.

"Extracurricular activities," Joker said, off the drip-drip-drip of the blood.

Moe smiled back, queasily. He handed the make-up case to the Joker who unzipped it and pulled out a compact. He examined himself in its mirror. "Oh, oh, this will never do at all. I look ghastly. I'm gonna wind up on Go Fug Yourself." He ground a powderpuff into his cheeks until they were even paler than before.

Moe felt strangely invasive, like he had compromised the Joker's privacy. He stood there, uncomfortable, as the Joker plucked his eyelashes.

"So, what are your thoughts on the Batman?"

Moe, disturbed, looked around to see if the boss might be talking to someone else. "Uhh… I don't like him, I guess. Puts a lotta mooks in jail. Can't bribe him, can't reason with him. Oughta mind his own business, ya ask me."

"And that's why nobody asks you. Batman has a destiny, you see. He's fated to fight for law and order, good and righteousness, Ma and apple pie, truth, justice, and the Starbucks way…" Joker pursed his lips to apply lipstick. "Or maybe he's just a whackjob that gets off on beating people up in oh-so-tight leather. Hard to tell these days. Does my hair look alright? Not too chlorine-y? I was going for caesar salad."

"It looks fine, boss. But why we gotta dress up as the Three Stooges?"

"Dress up?" Joker's expression soured melodramatically. "I'm going to forgive that slip. Even the greatest method actor needs time to get into character. Do that in front of my adoring public and I'll have you sodomized by wild animals."

"Oh-okay."

"Glad we understand each other. You believe in God, Moe?"

Moe didn't much like where this conversation was going. "…guess so."

Joker wound an arm around Moe, leading him around the room. "Me too. Who else could tell a joke as big as life? You get up, you go to work, and if you're lucky enough to dodge drunk drivers, crooked cops, and falling anvils for fifty-odd years, you get to wait around to die in _luxury!_ But that's just the warm-up act. I'm the punchline… and Batsy is my straight man. All that talk of legacy, charity, doing good… that's poppycock, my good man, poppycock! The only thing that really matters in life is… was it done with _style_? That's why we've gotta have a theme! It counts a lot more than the swimsuit competition, believe you me!"

"So your theme is… being funny?"

Joker suddenly scowled, his mercurial mood going down fifty degrees. "No, you nincompoop, funny comes naturally to me! My theme is killing people! Comedy is just my hobby. After all, in Gotham," he affected a lisp, "nothing ith ath it themes!"

He laughed uproariously at his own joke. Sensing what was good for him, Moe laughed along with him.

* * *

James Jr. was already asleep, lullabied by the quieted hum of the television. It was mainly background noise for Barbara; she was absorbed in a stitching project. Her parents emerged from their bedroom, dressed in their costumes. Father as a knight, mother as a maiden. She gave them both a smile.

"You guys look great."

"Thank you, sweetie." Sarah gestured Gordon onward, then bent down next to where Barbara was slouched on the love seat. "You sure you'll be alright on your own? We could stay home, play a card game, or fix some nice buttery popcorn and watch a movie."

"No, you guys go on ahead. I'll be fine on my own." She gestured to James Jr., who was softly drooling in his sleep. "I've got the spud to watch out for me."

Frowning in motherly disapproval, Sarah shut James Jr's mouth. "And you're positive you don't want to come with us?"

"Mom, I don't even have a costume. I just want to laze around the house."

"If you're sure..."

"I am."

Gordon returned, his coat on, with Sarah's coat folded over his arm. "Come on, Sarah. Barbara, call us if you need anything, anything _at all_."

"Well, there is one thing…"

They both seemed to move onto the balls of their feet. "Yes?"

"Could Dinah come over? We'll be real quiet and it'll be just us, no boys."

Gordon laughed good-naturedly as he patted his wife on the arm. "Sure, sure. In fact, tell her she can spend the night if she likes." His voice dropped. "But if she doesn't, call a cab for her. It's a long way from her place to ours."

Barbara knew he was disguising it as courtesy, but it was caution. _There's a whole three blocks of suburbia between our houses. How would she survive?_

Apparently, Dinah's mom thought the same, because Mrs. Drake dropped Dinah off in an SUV a few minutes after Barbara called (which she did a few minutes after her parents left). Dinah found the front door unlocked and open a crack, the house unlit except for the staccato flares from the muted television set. Drawn to that, she rounded the corner into the living room…

"Boo!"

Dinah whirled. Coming out of the shadows was some terrible black beast with yellow markings on its fur. She screamed and kicked at the monster.

"Oww!" Barbara said, falling down.

Dinah blinked, not being used to monsters that said ouch.

Then she turned on the lights.

"You bitch," she said to Barbara.

"Do I get a hand-up?"

"Whores don't get hands up."

Barbara leaped to her feet. "Scary costume, huh?"

"Halloween's not for five months yet, you psycho!"

Barbara adjusted her cowl, which Dinah had unhinged. "This isn't for Halloween, this is for the party at Wayne's."

"The party you're skipping out on?"

"A-ha! But Batwoman isn't skipping out on it!"

"Batwoman," Dinah repeated. "A little butch, don't you think? Kinda dykey?"

"You've overthinking it."

"You're the one with a cape."

"It gives me coverage in the back. This shit is mercilessly revealing."

Dinah gave her the Tyra Banks treatment. Looked her over, circled her, even pulled back the cape like she was a mechanic looking under the hood. Barbara struck a superhero pose, chest out, arms at her waist like bullets bounced off her.

"So, what do you think?"

Dinah put a finger to her lips. "Well, it's not sluttastic, which means it's _definitely_ not a proper Halloween costume. Except for the high heels. Very do-me-riffic."

Barbara stuck out her tongue. "Not all of us can pull off fishnets," she returned after she pulled it back in. "Besides, I've been waiting for an ensemble to use those canary-yellow shoes you gave me."

"Aww, that's sweet of you. Although I was kind of hoping you'd regift them to me."

"Trollop, I knew it!" Barbara finger-combed the hair spilling from her cowl. "Okay, here's the deal. I need you to watch James Jr. while I go to the party. Also, I need to borrow your motorcycle."

Dinah was aghast. "Do you want a kidney while you're at it?"

"No, but the night is young. Come on, Dinah, you owe me."

Dinah crossed her arms, sighed, and gave in. She always did, when Barbara asked. "How long do I have to watch the brat?"

"Just a few hours. I'll just mingle a little, show the 'rents they shouldn't be treating me with kid gloves, and come back." Dinah looked at her uncertainly. At last, Barbara put a gloved hand on her shoulder. "I want to show them I'm not afraid. That's what I want to show everyone."

With another sigh, Dinah took a set of keys from her pocket and dropped them in Barbara's hand. "Bring it back with a full tank of gas. And if you wreck it, your ass is mine."

Barbara kissed her on the cheek. "If you want my ass that bad, you could just ask."

Dinah shoved her playfully. "G'wan, get. And bring me back some high-society stories to live vicariously through!"

"Will do, Elizabeth Bennet. I'll tell you all about what it was like to dance with Lord Heathcliff," Barbara shouted as she left.

"Write a crossover fanfic about it, geek!"

* * *

Tim's father was looking at him with murder in his eyes. The costume was a provocation calculated to get a specific response, and this was it. It wasn't that Tim liked the attention. In fact, he would rather do without it. But as long as it was foisted upon him against his will, it was virtually his duty to make it negative.

His costume was a simple gray body suit with a satin cape, stockings to cover the legs, calf-length leather boots, a leather utility boot painted yellow, and, of course, a cowl. It wasn't sculpted like the real Batman's, just a leather hood pulled tight with a matte black hockey mask under it, cut in half so it didn't cover his jaw, like the Phantom of the Opera's mask. Tim suspected he looked faintly ridiculous (especially with black make-up around his eyes like he was a raccoon), but hey, Superman wore his goddamn underwear on the outside.

"Who are you going as?" Jack Drake asked caustically, adjusting his own gentleman pirate cravat. "Batman Jr.?"

"Lay off him, it's all in good fun," said, surprising them both, Tim's stepmother Dana.

Tim grunted at her, possibly in thanks.

They piled into the car.

* * *

The Joker fluffed his bowtie. The moment his fingers left it, it spun like an airplane propeller. An oldie, but a goodie.

"Not wearing a costume to a costume party," he said to his grisly reflection in the mirror. "How gauche am I?"

* * *

Bruce looked at his costume. It was black satin, smooth and glossy. Dubiously, he looked to Alfred for confirmation.

"Am I supposed to wear this, or cover up the windows with it?"

Alfred seamlessly produced a black fedora to go with it. "I recalled you always enjoyed the adventures of a certain Zorro as a child, Master Wayne, and now… well, a masked avenger who masquerades as a foppish dandy of the idle rich set… how could I be expected to resist the irony?"

"Sounds more like metafiction to me." Bruce took the hat and tried it on. Grimly, he said "I'll need a sword and bullwhip for this to be accurate."

"Very good, sir."

A few minutes later, Bruce Wayne made a fashionably late entrance to his own party. He knew that there were swords hanging above several mantelpieces, but had no idea where Alfred got the bullwhip. And part of him didn't want to know.

He boozed (ginger ale), schmoozed, and pretended not to know who everyone was behind their masks. Harvey Dent was too hard even for his playboy act. He was dressed as Superman, maskless, his musculature obvious even through the somewhat baggy costume. Gilda was dressed in what had to be a caricature of Lois Lane, judging by the porkpie hat with a press card sticking out of it. Bruce reminded himself very strongly not to mention this to Clark, ever.

"Ah, Harv." Bruce toasted him with the martini glass in his hand. "They tell me you had a little run-in with the Batman. Tell me, did he drink your blood?"

Gilda squeezed her husband. "Haven't found any bite marks yet… not for lack of trying."

"Well, at least now you know you can trust him," Bruce reasoned. "That's one good thing to come out of all this."

"I'm… not that sure."

Gilda elbowed him in the ribs. "Honey, the Batman saved your life."

"I know. But seeing him gave me the impression of an attack dog. Sure, he's being sicced on the other guy, but he's driven by rage. And that anger could swing against the innocent as easily as the guilty. That's the problem with vigilante justice. It's a black and white solution to problems with shades of gray."

"You wanna do a stump speech?" Gilda asked him.

"No, I'd rather get some more of those spinach puffs. Speaking of which, Bruce, your spread is fantastic."

Bruce smiled, not letting out a hint of the turmoil he felt boiling inside him. He'd saved Harvey's _life_ and the man still doubted him. It was vexing, all the more so because what if Harvey was right? Bruce regarded the Batman as a tool, a mask to wear against the wrongful… not the virtuous. But what if there was more to mask than man? What if he was a monster, just one that happened to fight on the side of law and order? They were questions with no easy answer and Bruce hated grappling with them.

"Hey, Bruce," Harvey said lightly. Bruce started. He must've drifted off, brooded a bit, let the mask slip… on or off, he found it hard to tell. "In all likelihood, you're right and I'm just being paranoid. But I'm an attorney. It's my job to split hairs on this kind of thing. You millionaire playboys are allowed to ignore my half-baked philosophizing."

"Well, now that I have your _permission_."

They laughed, joining the chorus that ringed the rebuilt ballroom of Wayne manor. The room was built of imposing marble and stone, warmed by Alfred's impeccable decorating. Bruce had been worried it would come off as either the second coming of the McMansion or a Tim Burton grotesquerie, but it actually looked like the house he'd remembered spending his childhood in. And it was alive again. Gotham was coming back to life.

"If you'll excuse me, Harv, I can't let you monopolize all my time. Gilda, try to stop getting lovelier. You are married now, after all, no need to rub it in the face of Gotham's single male population."

He strolled the party. Being seen. Making small talk. There was so much talked about and so little said. He'd hoped to pick up some information as sort of a salve for the wasted evening, but it seemed all the party would be good for was establishing his social persona.

"Having fun, sir?" Alfred asked, passing with a tray of drinks.

Bruce shook his martini glass. Empty. Alfred pulled a flask from his jacket pocket and refilled Bruce's glass with ginger ale.

"We've established one thing for certain, Alfred." Bruce was talking in that low voice that had unfortunately become synonymous in Alfred's mind with the 'real' Bruce Wayne. "I don't fit in here. I don't belong."

"Give it time, Master Wayne. Rome wasn't built in a day. You've got, in this very room, your brothers and sisters in polite society. Surely, there must be someone you have something in common with."

"Look at these people," Bruce said. "They've never lost anything. They don't have a mission in life, except to have fun and leech off their trust funds."

"You sound like you detest them."

"Part of me wishes I could be like them. In a world without crime, maybe I would be." Bruce forced a smile. "Don't worry about me, Alfred. I'll get by."

His smile metamorphosed into a social chameleon grin as he went to rejoin the party.

"And while you're getting by, try and have a little fun."

Bruce made a gesture of agreement over his shoulder.

* * *

Commissioner Gordon was trying to figure out how to drink his rum and cola through the visor of his armor when he heard a grim, familiar voice growl "**Commissioner**."

He whirled around. At first glance, it was Batman. At second glance, it was Batman if he were 5'4, costumed on a budget, and eating from a bowl of peanuts in one hand.

"Any progress with the Cobblepot case? Rumor has it that he was behind the assassination attempt on Harvey Dent."

Gordon scowled. "Are those dishwashing gloves?"

Tim paused, a handful of peanuts halfway to his mouth. "No."

"Are those dishwashing gloves painted black? I'm not sure it's safe to be eating with those on."

"Focus on the investigation, Commissioner. Follow the money. Who would benefit from Harvey Dent dead?"

Jim Gordon mused on the surrealism of life.

"The Penguin, obviously, but who's behind his meteoric rise to power? After Carmine Falcone's untimely death, a high-society outcast returns to Gotham and takes the underworld's reins. Where did he go? And more importantly, where did he get the money to start his Iceberg Lounge?"

Ten years ago, this might've seemed weird. Since then, Jim Gordon had driven a rocket-car with a manual transmission. Now the only thing in life that was inexplicable to him was the popularity of that Deal Or No Deal show.

"Young man, I can assure you that the Gotham City Police Department is doing everything in our power to find the criminals responsible for the attempt on District Attorney Dent's life, and if the trail leads to Oswald Cobblepot, he will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the…" Gordon turned. His miniature conversational partner had disappeared. Jim sighed. Back in Chicago, he never had to put up with this.

* * *

Bruce did a double-take as a Batboy stalked past him. Alfred, on his way to deliver a bendy straw to Gordon (and thus allow him to drink through his visor), gave Bruce a knowing glance.

"I have heard of an inner child," the butler said, _sotto voce_, "but having an external one seems quite avant-garde on your part, Master Wayne."

"You know me, Alfred, always the height of fashion. Get rid of him if he causes any trouble."

"I'll find a flashlight with a bat painted on the bulb. That should suffice for distracting him."

Bruce would've given Alfred an unimpressed glare. The butler's needling of his employer's habit of breaking engagements in favor of serving Gotham was an unending antagonism between the two men, one of the few real sticking points of their relationship that they would never see eye to eye on. He would've perpetuated the mini-feud, but a woman stopped him short.

He'd never had much of a problem with sexual tension. There were always women –beautiful, athletic, and, in the end, disposable – who were more than happy to take Bruce Wayne and his millions for a joy ride and part amicably. No commitments, no teary goodbyes, no strings attached. Sex was just another exercise, a tool he used to hone himself. It had proven benefits, and alleviating sexual tension made him a more efficient vigilante. Now and then there came a woman with whom there might be a more… sentimental attachment, but he always managed to drive them away. Lust, he had time for. Love, never.

Then she entered the room.

His nostrils filled. Her scent had hit him first, a perfume from one of the Italian provinces, had to be. He'd spent a little time there on a winery, stomping grapes and learning from a retired detective of some renown. It was an orgasmic aroma, one he'd thought he'd never encounter again. And yet here it was, ensnaring him and enrapturing his senses. For a moment, he considered resisting the urge to seek out its source. It would be an interesting test of will, albeit one he knew he could overcome. But it would be pointless and, as Alfred always told him, indulgences were de rigueur for men of his stature.

She was beautiful. His own age, though her eyes spoke of wisdom behind her years (_I'm getting sappy_). Dark hair with an ebony sheen, like a starless night sky (_this isn't like me_). Eyes the color of emeralds, dusky skin that still paled in comparison to that blackest of hair, full ruby lips, and an angular face that would've been cruel if it weren't off-set by a come-hither smile that made his heart quicken (_I've seen her somewhere before_). The dress was purple, its fabric lush and clinging. Slits ran all the way up both thighs, allowing movement and revealing slices of tanned flesh. A pair of go-go boots, eccentrically enough, ended her long legs. If only the line of her face wasn't ruined by her cowl, purple like her dress, with cat ears springing from its top. A short green cape completed the ensemble.

"And you are?" he asked, drawing closer to her.

"A cat, handsome fellow." She extended her hand. "Just a cat."

He kissed her hand through the opera glove that sheathed it. Looked up at her over the gentle highlands of her knuckles and up the smooth strait of skin that veiled her arm. "Do cats dance?"

"Cats never _stop_ dancing. Unfortunately for you, though, I hear no music."

Bruce snapped his fingers. "Mr. Bandman, something jazzy."

Almost imperceptibly, the background noise of the great ballroom shifted from chatter to the strains of an old big band standard. Bobby Darrin, maybe, although it wasn't Bruce's area of expertise. The woman pulled him tight enough for the whiskers of her cowl to traipse over his face. He locked one hand with hers, put the other daringly at the small of her back. She smiled and swayed him out onto the clearing dance floor.

"Don't you feel vaguely ridiculous, dancing in costumes?"

"Miss Kitty, I imagine I'd feel a lot more ridiculous dancing without a costume."

"Miss Kitty? How irreverent."

"That's America for you." He leaned in closer. "Your accent… Egyptian? You speak English very well."

"Amesegënallô."

"You're welcome."

Other couples were venturing out onto the dance floor. Harvey and Gilda, trying not to step on his red cape. The Commissioner and his wife. Other couples Bruce recognized from the local gossip mags, which Alfred boiled down into a cheat sheet for him each evening. As Batman, he knew the rot behind their glossy sheen. Which ones propped their businesses up with crime, or cheated on their wives with professional sex workers, or just had a taste for nose candy. His face was set, lips a tight line of disapproval, eyes narrowing in Clint Eastwood fashion. The woman placed a hand at his chin and forced his gaze back onto her, into the deep pools of her eyes.

"You seem upset. Does something trouble you?"

"…Gotham," he concluded after a moment's thought.

"Don't you like it here?"

"At times. When I think of what it could be," Bruce said, surprised at his own candidness.

"If you don't like it, why not leave?"

"Because this is my home."

"It must be nice." Her smile was sad. Like it was raining somewhere. "I never had a home, growing up. Or when grown up, really. I made few friends, I took no lovers… my father wouldn't allow it." Her hand coiled at the side of his neck. "Do you have any idea what it's like, being defined by your parents?"

"A little," he confessed. "Did you ever get free?"

"I guess…"

He looked into her for clarification.

"My father died."

"I'm sorry. And your mother?"

"She died, shortly after I was born. I think that's why my father was so protective of me. Still, I suppose I shouldn't compare sob stories with you."

"I had wealth… friends…" Bruce looked at Alfred, flittering around with always a kind word and a trays of hors d'oeuvre for his guests. "A family, in a way."

"Did that make it better?"

"No," he answered immediately. "Nothing makes it better."

"Not even revenge?"

He looked at her oddly.

"A disease killed my mother. I hope to find a cure for it."

As if the sadness of it were pushing her, she drifted deeper into his embrace until her head was resting against his broad chest. Bruce wondered if she could hear his heart beating faster.

"A noble goal. So, you're a scientist then?"

"No. Don't have the brains for it, I'm afraid. I'm only a humble museum curator."

"Ah. My neighbor Jackson Drake is an archaeologist. Have you met?"

"I'm afraid I've only recently arrived in Gotham. Unfinished business, you might say."

"How fortunate."

She made a quizzical noise.

"For me, at least."

"I must confess to a personal interest in your fair city," she said as she was spun in and out of a smoke-smooth pirouette. "So much crime, and yet so much hope. It's emblematic of… something. Like a societal microcosm for America in the new millennium. Especially your Batman."

"I've said it before, I'll say it again… the man clearly has issues." Bruce raised an eyebrow spookily. "If he even is a man."

"He's a man, alright." She ran a finger down the chest-baring, cross-stitched neckline of his shirt. "All man."

"My dear, you could drive a soul to jealousy."

"It's not my intent, I assure you. Who needs the Batman when I have you right here…?"

He dipped her, letting her hair fall nearly to the ground. And held her that way, gazing into her eyes like there was never anything else he needed to look at.

"It might be embarrassing to keep calling you Miss Kitty. Do you have something more… formal?"

She licked her lips. Then moved in, so slow it might have been a kiss, but instead she passed over him, the side of her face rubbing against his cheek until her lips were at his ear. "Talia," she whispered. "My name is Talia."

There was laughter all around and for a single, phobic moment Bruce thought it was directed at him and his sudden interest in romance. But then he lifted Talia… _Talia_ up to see that a trio of Three Stooges wannabes were spraying each other with seltzer bottles. Alfred's eyes bulged at the annoying behavior. Bruce sympathized.

The grandfather clock chimed and as one, the stooges blew on kazoos in fanfare. To that zippy theme, the doors spread open to reveal a man in a purple tuxedo. His face was bleached white, his hair was a shock of toxic green, and his eyes were yellow-tinged with bloodshot-redness. He walked forward on fashionable wingtips, surveying the entire room like a king would scrutinize his kingdom.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages! A party? For me? You shouldn't have." He did a little soft-shoes routine down the stairs and off the landing. "But it is appropriate. A good coming-out deserves a bash. But don't think I'm being greedy! No, no, no, no! I'm here to spread the joy! When I look at all your slack-jawed, pasty, wrinkled, and/or beady-eyed faces, I just want to carve a smile into each and every one of you!"

He grabbed the nearest partier by the cheeks and pulled his face up into a smile. "See? Isn't that better? _You can turn the world on with a smile…_"

"I love clowns," Talia said, giggling behind a petite hand.

"I don't," Bruce replied.

With a zippy spin, he hustled his way over to a painting of Thomas and Martha Wayne, a young Bruce sitting in his father's lamp. Bruce remembered holding still for the photographer to take the picture, then visiting the painter as he reworked that image into a work of art that seemed to understand all the things the photograph merely depicted.

The clown's white-gloved hands pushed the framed painting up from its place of honor and took it down. A rustle went through the crowd. Sensing danger, Bruce waited… but his jaw twitched.

"Hmmm…" the clown pulled reading glasses from his pocket and set the painting down to examine it more closely. "Interesting blend of styles! A dash of sophistication… some later-period entitlement, a hint of _noblesse oblige_, just a touch of martyr complex, wouldn't you say?" He tucked his glasses away. "Well, you know what they say… it ain't a party till something gets broke!"

With that, he drove his fist through the painting, vandalizing the face of Thomas Wayne. A collective gasp went through the crowd. The clown tittered. Then, the guests parted as the son of Thomas Wayne stepped forward. Their eyes darted between Bruce and the party crasher like the people of an Old West town might've watched a showdown commence.

Bruce trembled with anger. "Whoever you are, I don't think you're very funny."

The man in the purple tuxedo wheeled on him, his mirthful smile wiped from his face, leaving the simple blank expression of the psychopath. Then it returned, twitching up at the corners of his red, red lips like a corpse's death throes, then into a smug smirk. He made a show of cleaning out his ear with his pinky finger.

"What was that?"

"I said, you're not funny."

The clown walked up to him. "That's what I thought you said."

With the same shocking violence that had defaced the painting, he backhanded Bruce. The billionaire hit the ground, a trickle of blood oozing from his split lip.

"I'm the Joker. And I say what's funny." The crowd shrieked as he reached down into his pants and pulled out a gun. "For instance, this?" He aimed at Bruce's head. "High-larious!"

He pulled the trigger.

A flagpole extended from the barrel of the gun. Then a small flag reading "BOOM!" unraveled from that pole, hanging in the air with a slight wibble.

There were a few nervous chuckles. Joker waved the gun at his audience, provoking gales of shocked, head-shaking laughter. He ended up pointing it at Talia, who was still as a statue.

"You're not laughing."

"It's not funny," she replied.

"Oh, women! You wouldn't know a good joke if penetrated into your chest cavity, causing massive bleeding and tissue damage!" He pulled the trigger again. The flagpole shot from the gun like a spear and impaled her between the breasts. The outrageous laughter turned quickly into screams. Joker closes his eyes and orgasmically breathed in the terror as Talia collapsed, like an exhausted dancer, to the ground. "Case in point."

The clowns sprouted weapons out of concealment and fired into the air, driving the Gothamites by primordial instinct to huddle in fear on the ground. Only Bruce was in motion, belly-crawling over to Talia. He reached the pool of blood rippling away from her before he reached her.

"Hoo-ie, that was _loud_!" The Joker stepped over Bruce to nudge the fallen Talia. She gurgled blood. "Every party needs a pooper, that's why I eviscerated you…" he sang. Bruce looked up at him with eyes that could kill. "Oh, simmer down, rich boy, you'll get your turn."

The Joker snatched a bottle of wine from an ice bucket and opened it, laughing when the cork struck a cowering man in the buttocks. He laughed harder when the man wet himself. He grabbed a glass from the bottom of a champagne pyramid, imploding the whole thing, then poured wine into the already-full glass. He guzzled it down, the precious wine dripping off his pointed chin. "Please remain calm, my dear hostages, so long as no one does anything… unfunny… no one will be harmed." Not even breaking stride, he bashed a man's brains in with the champagne bottle. "Except him, of course."

He deadpan dropped the bloody bottle to the ground. "Boys, relieve our audience of their material limitations. And remember," he cautioned the hostages. "It's your donations that keep Joker TV on the air, so please, give generously. In fact, give till it hurts. And then give some more! HAHAHAHAHA!"

Talia was in Bruce's arms. She had seemed so vivacious and alive earlier, but now her body seemed as hard as clay. Bruce quickly staunched the bleeding as best he could, but it was obvious she didn't have long without medical attention. At war with his concern and urge to help was the desire for bloody retribution. This one had come into his house, mocked his father's memory, attacked guests directly under his protection. This… he would take pleasure in. If he could just get his heart to stop pounding.

The Joker's henchmen were moving through the ballroom as their boss continued his rant. They were ripping wallets and billfolds from the guests, taking jewelry and watches, tearing their clothes as they did so. It was a horrible, hellish cacophony of sound. Torn cloth and screams ripped from throats and the jangle of coins that spilled out and touched the floor and skimmed and skittered about on the tiles like an infestation of bugs.

A cackling, mad, lyrical voice rose above the madness. "Gentlemen, much like the ladies in your secretary pool, I'm looking for a man. A Bat-man. It'd take quite a lot of moolah to get all those wonderful toys, so one of you rich pricks must've thought it was funny to own your own pet vigilante. Guess having a sports team wasn't good enough. So, I'm looking for someone to tell me who Batsy is."

Curly whispered something in his ear. "Find Dent," the Joker growled back. Then he spotted something that made his eyes light up with delight.

"You look familiar. Have we met before?" And he pranced off in that direction.

A henchman with hair combed into the distinctive cut of Larry from the Three Stooges grabbed Harvey Dent's wife, ripping the pearls from her necklace. They went flying, rolling across the floor like spent bullets. One hit the mandorla of blood around the fallen Talia.

"Get your hands off of her!" Harvey screamed, getting a pistol-whipping across his face for his trouble.

Bruce straightened like an angry wolf. His sleeves and hands were soaked with blood. On all fours, Alfred crawled to join him.

"I'll attend to her, Master Bruce. You attend to them!" He jerked his head to the clowns.

"I can't… too many people around…" Bruce seemed on the verge of curling into a fetal position. Alfred had never seen him like this… not since he was a child. "Can't risk a confrontation."

"You're going to have to or he'll kill us all, one by one."

Hands clasped behind his back, the Joker walked through the crowd. They split around him like sheep sensing a wolf in their midst. He weaved to and fro, enjoying the way they drew away from him every time he feinted movement in their direction. Finally, he shouted "BOO!" and everyone in earshot cringed.

On the ground, Harvey met Bruce's eyes. And Harvey saw a change come over his friend, something gray slipping over his green eyes. Bruce's jaw set, his lips grew tight, and his eyes were more focused than Harvey had ever seen anyone's. They surveyed the room, penetrating it, before resting on Harvey and returning his look. Bruce gave a barely perceptible nod and Harvey realized first that the next twist in this impossible nightmare was that Bruce Wayne was taking charge. And second, that the adrenaline rush currently in the process of shaking his body like a rag doll was finally going to get expression.

He'd kept in shape since his days in the Gulf War. Never really earned that war hero title his campaign people liked to paint him with, but he hadn't dishonored himself. And he knew his way around a gun, even if he never got time to go to the range.

With a sickening sound of flesh on flesh, Gilda crumpled, sucker-punched, gasping in air and trying not to vomit. Harvey tried to crawl over to her, got a kick in the ribs for his trouble. Larry and Curly started going to work on the Dents with his feet, the latter chanting "nyuck nyuck nyuck!" A steel-toed boot cut a gash in Harvey's cheek.

Unnoticed by all, Bruce slipped Talia's body into Alfred's arms. His tuxedo front was stained crimson with blood. He cracked his neck once, then rose.

"No takers?" the Joker was saying. "No one has even a clue who the Batman is? I'm shocked and appalled. You people are supposed to be the crème de la crème and you've been outsmarted by a man who dresses up for Halloween all year round! What's society coming to? It's enough to make a soul lose faith in social Darwinism! You there!"

He strode up to Jack Drake, adding some variety to his walk with a hop and a skip in the middle. Jack was hugging his wife and son to him, but as the Joker approached he broke free of their grasp to stand between them and the clown.

"You got something there," Joker said, poking his finger into Jack's chest.

Jack looked down.

Joker raised his finger quickly, bopping Jack's nose, then swung his other hand around in a roundhouse punch that sent Jack Drake to the ground.

"Gotta love the old punchlines!" Joker cackled, shaking off his bruised knuckles.

Tim knew then and there that he wasn't a hero. All the schoolboy fantasies didn't make him one, and no amount of training montages in his future would make him one either. He wasn't even a proper victim. Dana was crouched down, shaking Jack in an attempt to rouse him. Tim was just standing there, trying not to wet himself. He didn't have a plan. He didn't have a witty comeback or some inspiring speech. He was no hero.

The Joker, squatting down on his haunches, slapped his purple-clad thighs in rapid sequence, finished his drum solo by slapping his hands together over Tim's cheeks.

"And what do we have here? Batman Junior?" Like a hairdresser, Joker teased and preened Tim's cowl. "What's your name?"

"Tim," he said in a voice like air leaking from something.

Joker's smile was wide, his eyes alive. With a horrible zest he pulled a Desert Eagle from the folds of his coat. Its metal finish shone brightly, large and angular and cruel in his hand. "You like guns, Timmy?"

What passed for Tim's voice dried out his mouth, teared up his eyes. "No."

"Come on, every boy likes guns. They're cool or hot or whatever it is you kids call 'em these days. Here. Wanna touch it?"

"No," Tim whimpered.

"You've a very contrary lad." Joker twirled the gun so that he was holding it by the barrel, offering the butt to Tim. "Come on, now, don't be shy, give it a go."

"No, thank you," Tim said. Ice water was running through his veins. It started as his chest, which breathed in sporadic bursts, then traveled down his extremities. Soon, he couldn't stop shaking, no matter how hard he balled his hands into fists of effort.

Joker fell to his knees, spinning Tim around and hugging him from behind. His lips ran up and down the shell of Tim's ear. "You ever kill anybody, Tim?"

"N-n-no." A fat tear left Tim's eye and rolled down his cheek. Tim knew, with the certainty of nightmare logic, that if the Joker saw it, something bad would happen.

The Joker forced his gun into Tim's hands, wrapped the small fingers around the handle and then crushing them within his own spidery digits. The Joker forced Tim's index finger through the trigger guard.

"No? Those schools, they do such an awful job of preparing you for the real world."

Jack Drake spoke up from where he was sprawled on the ground, blood gracing his chin. "Leave him alone, you son of a bitch!"

Joker spun himself and his young hostage around, aiming the gun in the son's hands at the father. Tim cringed; the only reason he didn't scream was because he had no voice.

"Ah, no need to worry. I'm good with kids. Got one of my own. Had, rather." The Joker took a hand off the gun and turned out his pocket. "Can't remember where I put him!"

Tim's arm was twitching, driving his aim away from Jack Drake. The Joker forcibly steadied his aim, both hands back on Tim's.

"Intoxicating, isn't it?" he breathed over Tim's shoulder. "The power of life and death. With one curl of your finger, and all those hopes and dreams and little imaginary worlds go bye-bye. Funny, isn't it? If I didn't laugh, I'd cry." Like a dance partner taking the lead, he twisted Tim so that the gun was aiming out into the crowd. He bounced the sight of the gun from innocent to innocent, drawing arches in the air. "Eeny. Meeny."

A storm of fear brewed among the crowd. Some started weeping openly, all cowered, with those who weren't driven to catatonia shying away from the gun's barrel.

"Miney."

Like a baseball catcher sending a signal to his pitcher, Bruce flashed three fingers to Harvey. Then he counted down to two.

Harvey nodded curtly. Brushed Gilda's fingers from his arm.

"Mo."

The gun stopped with Commissioner Gordon under its sight.

Bruce's countdown reached one.

The Joker smiled. "Evening, Commish. Consider this the first round of your twenty-one gun salute."

And then everything went to hell.


	11. Batgirl Begins

Dinah had sold her out. The motorcycle's tank had nothing but fumes in it. Barbara had to walk the bike to the nearest gas station and stand around looking like an idiot while she pumped. She could only put five bucks' worth in the tank, too, because she had only brought pocket change. Maybe she should've included a purse in her ensemble. Batman probably had a Bat-credit card in his utility belt.

By the time she'd traveled the fair distance between Gotham city limits and the Wayne mansion, the party was in full swing. Barbara saw a man carrying two garbage bags out. They were slack at the neck and heavy at the bottom. The guy carrying them was dressed like one of the Three Stooges, Moe, but he swaggered like he was carrying.

Under her cowl, sweat coursed over Barbara's skin. She killed the engine and hid the bike in the woods. Then, she jumped the fence into Wayne's place. She landed, light as a cat, and made no noise. _Thank you, gymnastics class._ Then Barbara started creeping toward the house itself. Every nerve in her body was shouting that this was a bad idea. Moe was throwing the garbage bags into the front seat of a minivan. Barbara head them jangle metallically when they landed. Then she stepped on a twig.

Barbara heard, felt, Moe tense. They were forty feet apart, solar lights on the ground casting staccato lights against the pitch-black night. She was in the darkness between two lamps. She hit the deck, trying to hide as much of her costume's bright highlights as possible… holding an arm over her yellow chest-symbol and stuffing her cape behind her prone body, holding her body absolutely still, not even breathing…

Moe pulled open his jacket, revealing the ugly broken-nature shape of a gun in a shoulder holster like her father's. With a hand on the pistol grip, he scrutinized the darkness. His thumb tapped the hammer as his head swiveled.

"Alright, I see you, come out."

Barbara suppressed a whimper.

"Come into the light or I'll shoot you."

She would've, but she couldn't move.

"Listen, dude, I'm not playing."

_Dude?_

He thought she was a man. Or he was just bluffing. Barbara bit her lip so hard it hurt, but she didn't move an inch. Not one inch.

Was this what a lightning rod felt like, waiting to be struck? She could _feel_ the gun on her, like a spotlight, burning hotter and hotter until there was finally an explosion. What an utterly stupid way to die. Shot to death in the dark while cross-dressing in a Batman costume. Barbara Gordon, valedictorian, bled out on the front yard of Gotham's most eligible bachelor. It'd be scandalous if it weren't so terrifying. At least it wouldn't hurt, if she was shot. There'd be a brief flash of pain then she'd go into shock. That's how her father had described it. After shock came death by exsanguination, and that was just like falling to sleep. Just like.

Moe laughed to himself and went back inside. Barbara's heart started beating again. She stood on rubber-band legs and staggered her way to one of the huge windows looking into the mansion. Inside, all the costumed guests were cowering like extras in a monster movie. The Stooges stood at strategic vantage points, covering the vast room with their submachine guns. Curly herded the cooks and waiters out of the kitchen at gunpoint. They took their seats as audience to the center tableau.

A man… a ghoulish, creepy _presence_ wearing the shape of a man… had a boy practically in his lap, gun locked in their hands. It was aimed at her father.

Barbara ran as fast as her legs could carry her, back to the woods. She must've broken a land speed record. She flung her legs astride the motorcycle, gunned the engine, floored it. The tires ripped through turf and gravel as she accelerated as fast as Dinah's bike would allow. Dinah was a gearhead. Her bike could allow plenty.

The window was a target, she was an arrow. 50 MPH, 50, 70, 80. Good traction, too. She hit a solar light and launched the bike into the air. Gravity was for mortals as she arced toward the window. Glass shattered under her front tire, showered over her windshield, streaked past her face like crystal bullets.

She rammed Joker, a glancing blow so as not to crush his hostage too. The Joker prat-fell over the windshield, flying over Barbara's hunched shoulders. Tim hit the deck and everyone started shooting.

Bruce tackled Moe to the ground, sending his revolver skittering across the floor. Harvey caught it, scooped it up, and fired all six cylinders into Larry. He wanted to stop at just one, but every time he paused he saw a flash of that animal brutalizing his wife and he squeezed the trigger again… and again… and again…

The gun clicked empty, leaving blue gunsmoke heavy in the air. Through the haze, the most vivid thing was the pool of blood spreading out of the dead criminal. Harvey numbly lowered the weapon. Nearby, Bruce was repeatedly cracking Moe's head against the tile floor.

Curly had opened up with his SMG, trying to tag Batgirl. She leapt from her bike and skitched, hanging off the side of the bike with her feet on the ground like a skier. The bullets ricocheted off the motorcycle's tank, which served as cover for her. At least until it ran into buffet table, catapulting Batgirl through an elaborate champagne glass pyramid.

Her motorcycle continued through the table, having reduced one end of it to splinters. It fell over and went into a skid, kicking up sparks. One hit the fuel leaking from its tank. The bike exploded and the screaming fireball scattered the hostages before ramming the wall, lighting the drapes on fire.

"Oh, bloody hell, not again," Alfred said as he hit Moe with a candlestick. The Stooge had been starting to rise.

"Alfred," Bruce said, a touch of franticness in his voice, before he grabbed Larry's pistol and stuffed it into his costume. His mask and hat were off, leaving him chaotically disheveled. "Clean this up."

He stalked after Joker, who was grabbing Curly by the crock of his arm and dragging him toward the elbow. The action caused Curly's aim to go awry, blasting a trail of destruction across the wall.

"C'mon, Curly, we've overstayed our welcome!" Joker shot a would-be hero in the stomach and elbowed him aside as they stepped into the entrance hall.

Bruce followed them. The long hall had marble floors and walls, with an impossibly long red carpet along the floor and red curtains draping the paired windows that went down the length of the room. The moonlight coming through the tall windows shone between thick pillars. The Joker and Curly were nearly to the door leading out when Bruce lifted the gun and shot Curly through the leg.

He went down, screaming, firing wildly. The Joker neatly sidestepped the blaze of gunfire, which stopped as abruptly as it had began. Out of ammo.

The Joker turned, annoyed, and Bruce shot him in the thigh. He jerked and hopped up and down on one foot, cursing in pain. But not bleeding.

"Nice try, Gay Blade! But do you really think I'd go to a party without dressing the part?" He ripped open his vest. "Kevlar, through and through! So if you want to stop me…" The Joker pressed his finger firmly between his eyes. "Do it. Take it from me, it's great fun."

The gun was an ever-growing weight in Bruce's hands. He hated the thing. Hated what this… clown had reduced him to. But he couldn't very well use Ducard's training on them, not without his armor or equipment, not in front of witnesses… not when guns were so much more effective.

"No. You're going to jail."

"Ha! I like you. You're funny. Have we met before?" The Joker frowned, like he was trying to fix an obstinate puzzle piece. "Your face is familiar… but something's wrong with it, something… pah, who cares!" He turned on his heel. "So long, farewell, au revoir, auf Wiedersehen! I'd like to stay and taste my first champagne…"

"What about me!?" Curly cried.

"What about you? Oh, yes." He shot Curly through the head.

Bruce screamed so hard the force of it shook him, firing round after impotent round. Each whizzed by the Joker's smiling face, none so much as parting his hair. The Joker threw open the door even as bullets chipped it, then he calmly turned and raised his gun.

"Great party, isn't it?"

Bruce felt something tackle him behind a pillar just as an explosion echoed down the hallway. He looked down to see a girl in black sheltering him against the pillar, holding him tight as more bullets sparked against it. Then he heard an engine turn over and the squeal of tires as the Joker roared away.

The girl in the bat-costume let him up, and only propriety kept Bruce from shoving her aside as he ran out the door. In the distance, he could see the taillights of the Joker's van as it drove out of the manor's gates.

"Helluva night, huh?" the girl said behind him.

"Hell of a life," Bruce turned. "Nice costume, Miss…?"

She was gone.

* * *

The following hours passed like a dream… a nightmare; surreal, feverish. How many times had Bruce's investigations dovetailed with a crime scene? The interviewing of witnesses, the flashing of cameras, the moating of police tape long after the stronghold had been breached. It was all so familiar; déjà vu. But it always happened to others, never to him. Not since… that night.

In the nightmares, Joe Chill was like the man who laughed, the man who called himself the Joker. Laughing, uncaring, unfeeling… evil. It had taken years for Bruce to come to terms with the fact that the evil he fought hid behind human masks… The Joe Chills of the world had families. Ra's Al Ghul had a past.

And the Joker had proven him wrong, for everything he'd seen of the clown was incontrovertibly evil.

He watched as the bodies were carted out of his house, of _his parents' house_, leaving only blood. His hands twitched with the desire to wipe it away, erase it. Slowly, he walked through an adjacent room, a study. He carried his father's defaced portrait under his arm, not sure what to do with it. It seemed wrong to leave it to the crime scene technicians in the other room. They'd already photographed this room, where the bullets had punched through. One had shattered the holder of Augustus Wayne's coin collection, hanging from the wall in a wooden frame. Glass and semi-rare coins were spilled on the floor beneath it.

Harvey was sitting across from it in an armchair, his face wreathed in shadows. One of the EMTs had wreathed him in a dark blanket and stitched up the cuts on his face. Bruce moved to turn on a table lamp and Harvey signaled for him to stop. Bruce left it off. Harvey went back to rubbing his hands over each other.

"GSR. Gunshot residue. You know how many cases I've built on gunshot residue? It's not really gunpowder, not usually. It's primer. Barium nitrate, lead styphnate, antimony sulfide… they say most of it falls off in two hours, but if you use lotion or cream…"

Bruce set down the painting, looking away from him. "You sound like a man who needs a drink," he said, opening up a drawer in his desk and pulling out a bottle of scotch.

Harvey grunted and leaned forward, head in his hands. Bruce wasn't sure how long he would've stayed there if he didn't shake a brandy snifter in front of his face, the ice jangling around. Harvey reached out a hand to take it, then sat back up and had a drink.

"They took Gilda to the hospital. You saw her cough up blood?"

"You should be with her," Bruce said, not accusingly.

"I can't. All those tubes and… I can't look at her like that. She wouldn't want me to. No. No."

"Harvey, you're in shock."

"Of course I'm in shock. I just killed a man." Harvey slammed his glass down on the lamp stand. "Didn't hesitate. I swore to uphold the law and I shot a man _six times_."

"You were protecting yourself. Your wife. Everyone in that room might owe their life to you."

"Doesn't excuse it. Nothing excuses… oh God, what am I saying? If Jim heard me… he's probably killed people in the line of duty. I've never even pointed a gun at someone before tonight."

Bruce put his hand on Harvey's shoulder and squeezed with iron force. "You did the only thing you could do. The right thing."

"Right… and wrong… is that all there is? I did the right thing… does that mean I did the good thing?"

Bruce didn't have an answer.

Harvey chuckled darkly, picking up his glass again and shaking it for a refill. A little dubiously, Bruce poured. "You know, after Superman left, this woman wrote an article about him. Lois Lane. Won a Pulitzer for it."

"Why the world doesn't need Superman."

"One of the reasons she cited is that… there's a kind of balance to the world. Good and evil, yin and yang. A never-ending battle, she called it. Superman is like an A-bomb. Put him on one side, and pretty soon the equivalent springs up on the other side. Batman's like that. He's unbalanced the equation… and now someone's come to oppose him. To equal him." Harvey drank.

Bruce's eyes were narrowed. "He's been opposed before."

"Not like this. I should know, I've prosecuted half of the freaks he's put in Arkham. And now this Joker comes along… can you really say he wouldn't exist if it weren't for Batman?"

"Batman didn't cause the Joker," Bruce said soundly. "Get your cape, I'll drive you home."

Harvey reluctantly let Bruce pull him to his feet. There was something dark in his eyes that Bruce hated to look at, mostly because it wasn't exactly _new_. It was like something had _thrived_ within him, and Bruce had the horrible feeling that he had fed it.

"You handled yourself pretty well back there," Harvey said. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

"Harvey," Bruce replied wryly. "Had to learn to fend off the ladies somehow."

"I thought I saw you pick up a gun… you know… back there… but it must've been all the confusion, because then you followed the Joker and he shot at you. That's all it was, right?"

"Yeah. I'm no hero."

Glass crinkled under foot as he stepped back to make way for Harvey. He looked down to see a silver dollar poking out from under the toe of his foot. Bruce crouched down to pick it up. It was a commemorative coin, one side showing a profile of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the other an image of Lady Gotham.

He looked up at Harvey, who was once more allayed… comatose, really. "A souvenir," Bruce said of it, dancing it across his knuckles. "Heads up."

He flipped the coin to Harvey, who instinctively caught it. He opened his fingers to look at what he'd caught. The bullet had chipped the top of the coin, just a wink, the heat slagging the metal and caused a trickle of argent to seep down over the face, neatly bisecting it.

"For luck," Bruce said.


	12. A Great Man

In Texas alone, there was one highway death every two hours and thirty-four minutes. An injury every one minute and fifty-four seconds. A collision every ninety-seven seconds. And that was just when people _drove_. Fifty states in the country. A hundred and ninety-three countries by conservative estimate. And in every single one of them, people (6.5 billion all over the world, three more born every seconds) were crying out for a hero. No, not a hero, not anymore. A savior.

And despite all that, when it was closing time at the Daily Planet – an arbitrary event, minded only by the janitors who came in to clean up around the deadline-racing staffers – he tuned an ear or focused his vision on Lois. Didn't matter where he was. Clark tried to tell himself he was just watching out for her – what if her car had a blow-out or something? She had a kid now – but even when she was home, safe and sound, he found himself lingering nearby, resisting the urge to pry into her life. He didn't know what he was doing there. What he was looking for. Richard to beat her up, so he could swoop in and save the day? To overhear her saying "Kal-El, take me away!" Would he, even if she asked?

Jason deserved a family.

It was all too much for him. He could conquer death, although that selfish action had risked the integrity of time itself, but he couldn't prevail against the ravages of the human heart. And part of him thought it was because he wasn't human. That in some way, he couldn't empathize with them. He was a freak. He could see through them, but he couldn't really know them. His brain chemistry was different, his brainwaves resonated on different frequencies, he wasn't wired the same. It was as his father had said. Even though he'd been raised as human, he was not one of them.

His internal clock went off. Clark knew it was as accurate as any timepiece. With a sigh, he tuned his ear to the Daily Planet. Closing time. There it was, the clickety-klack of a keyboard as Lois put the finishing touches on her article, followed by the whine of the printer as it went to work. He could cruise through Metropolis, fight a little street crime, be in place when she went home (which would be soon, because she always tried to tuck Jason in -- and he shouldn't _know that_, that was creepy, what was _wrong_ with him?).

But no. Not tonight. That was the action of a lonely man. And he wasn't alone. Not anymore.

With a last wave to Jimmy and Richard on the roof of the Daily Planet, he stopped flying and _soared_. The world blurred around the edges as he flew down the familiar path. The air currents were oh-so-familiar as they broke across his face, updrafts and thermals and wind shear (all cooler now that the sun had set), like slipping on a comfortable pair of jeans. Soon he had crossed the state line into Kansas. Different at night, but no less warm. Even to him, the stars seemed a little brighter. It was almost like stepping back in time to an America his mind insisted had never really existed.

Superman lowered himself to Earth, careful as always to ease out of his sonic flight and into a feather-soft landing. If a ball bearing had been on the ground beside where he touched down, it wouldn't have rolled. From just below the clouds he'd seen a speeding form part the cornstalks to either side like a torpedo underwater. Now he shifted his sight to the spectrum the pressed had dubbed "X-ray vision."

Cornstalks melted away like ice chips in the sun, revealing a flash of red lightning. Superman tapped into the motion force that always tingled like 10,000 volts, literally bringing himself up to speed. Time seemed to slow down, all motion now slogging through the aspic of the world. Except for one: Kara, wearing his old red jacket, long tans legs pistoning under her.

Superman shook his head and took off after her, flying just above the cornfield. It took some exertion, but he caught up with her. She wasn't breaking a sweat, she was just enjoying her power. Obviously, she hadn't learned a better way to control her supersenses than to just shut them out. Clark slid up behind her and said "Try jumping."

Kara snapped her head to look at him with an open-mouthed gape of surprise. Knowing how temperamental she could be, Superman didn't laugh. He just gestured up. Slender legs coiled under cut-off jeans and Kara jumped. Superman watched her abrupt elevation (steep as a cliff) and then a leisurely parabola down as she strained with her nascent flight ability. He let her gain some altitude before he joined her up near the clouds. Her smile was wide and young. There was hope for her yet.

Kara felt the clouds against her face. "It's almost like…"

"Flying?"

He caught her before she dug up a furrow in Ben Hubbard's yard. His hand was around her wrist, but she didn't return the favor.

"I can fly on my own!"

"You can glide. That's not flying, that's falling with style."

Kara noticed the ground was dwindling beneath her. She clung to Kal-El's thick arm with her thin ones. "Don't drop me!"

"I would never."

Clark concentrated hard. Some scientists had theorized that he had a kind of tactile telekinesis. If he caught an airplane, a subconscious field of psychic energy kept it together instead of fracturing. Clark didn't know about that, but he did know that when he really thought about it, he found it easy to lift things with limited leverage, or make them almost float beside him, even uncork champagne bottles with a single touch. It was almost like he could slide someone's center of gravity around to make them easier to lift, stop them without snapping their arm out of a socket. Came in handy, although Bruce probably hated him a little for not caring how it worked so long as it worked.

Very gently he eased Kara up to fly beside him. Her free hand was still wrapped around his bicep as he took them over the cloud cover. Clark gently tapped on the knuckles of that hand, then flung his arm out wide. Reluctantly, Kara followed his lead. Connected only by Superman's outstretched arm, they flew.

"I heard you'd been going a little stir-crazy," Clark said.

Kara cocked her head to one side.

"You know… cabin fever?"

Kara cocked her head to the other side.

"You're bored."

"So you're taking me to Metropolis? To help with your mission?" Kara's voice had already lifted with excitement.

"First off, I don't really have a mission in the way you're implying. I'm not trying to turn Earth into New Krypton."

"Pity. They could use it. Do you know they still grow food in the dirt?"

"I might've overheard something of that nature." Clark saw Kara wasn't amused. "It's fine. They clean it."

"But dirt is so… dirty!"

"You know, they play in it sometimes."

"Ewww!"

"Walk barefoot in it, throw it at each other when it's wet…"

"Disgusting!"

"It's fun."

"To you, maybe."

"There's an old saying on Earth: Don't knock it till you've tried it."

"I don't need a Thanagarian Snare Beast's ovipositor rammed down my throat to know I wouldn't like it."

Clark pointed to a strata of dark clouds on the horizon. "See that electrical storm?"

Kara had sensed, by both word and direction, that they weren't going to Metropolis. "It crossed my notice," she said poutily.

"Do you think it'd be fun to fly through?"

"Of course not! There are high-speed winds, hyper-electrical discharges, uncontrolled precipitation – another of this world's technological deficits—"

Clark merely smiled. "Hang on," he advised.

They plunged into the storm. Kara was buffeted, soaked, shocked, but it was all worth it for the moment Kal tossed her into an updraft, letting the wind unshackle her from gravity before he caught her and carried her out of the storm, saying "I've got you, I've got you."

The storm had been violent, primal, nothing at all like the carefully planned showers of Krypton. But Kal was right. She had enjoyed it.

"Kal… Clark, I need to talk to you about something."

"We'll talk at the Fortress," Clark sung into her ear. "For now, enjoy the ride."

They dried off with the friction of supersonic flight, quite warm as their speed cracked the icefields below. They were in the Arctic now. Kara knew from the polar bears and the way the magnetosphere funneled into a cusp. Kara had tired, and now she was snuggled against Superman, him cradling her to his chest, wrapped up in the warm embrace of his cape. If she'd known they were headed for the North Pole, she would've dressed in longer pants.

"This is a very special place to me," Clark said. "Some days, it felt like the closest thing I had to a home. I hope you'll come to see it that way too."

"Will it help me get ready to aid you in your not-mission?"

"That's the idea."

The polar winds sliced into them. Kara pulled the cape tighter around her dainty shoulders. Above, the aurora borealis flared and rolled. Kara tensed as they flew through it, but the weird energy just tickled her skin. She huddled closer to Kal-El. Then she heard it. The clear, virtuoso hum of crystals at work. Scouring the horizon, she saw it.

At first Kara thought it was a mountain, then she extended her vision as Kal had taught her and saw it more clearly. It was a palace of bygone Krypton! "Is that the place?"

"Well, it's not Santa Claus's workshop."

Judging from his vocal inflection, Kara decided this was a joke and no individual by the name of Santa Claus possessed Kryptonian technology.

As they approached, Kal's eyes narrowed. "What is it?" Kara asked.

"Looks like tracks in the snow. And the ice on the surface of the water only formed recently."

"So someone's been here!"

"Probably just some explorers who got turned around. The security system will have set them straight. Still, I'd better check the Fortress's surveillance logs."

"Fortress?"

"I used to have this treehouse my dad… Jonathan Kent, I mean… called it my Fortress of Solitude. I thought it sounded cool. Still do, truthfully. Jor-El sent a crystal seed with me in the life capsule. It grew this place for me."

"To what end?"

Clark landed. Kara gave him his cape back; he re-secured it with a sweep.

"Jor-El downloaded his consciousness into the crystals to serve as a mentor for me. But the energy banks were depleted. Now it's nothing more than a database." Clark lowered his eyes, voice falling too. "A _pocket calculator_."

"Kryptonian energy banks can last for millennia. What could have-"

"A mistake."

Clark prodded open the 200-foot-tall door. It fell off its multi-ton hinges, toppling like a demolished skyscraper. It hit the ground with such force that the crystal it was made out of shattered and the ground where it hit cracked open. Clark watched in shock as the diamond dust settled.

"Kal…"

"I know," Clark said through suddenly clenched teeth. He took off, flying through the Fortress at top speed. His passage stirred up the detritus of unwelcome guests, candy wrappers and wadded-up tissues Maybe it was Kryptonian ESP, maybe it was just a reporter's instincts, but he could see every degradation the intruders had inflicted on Krypton's legacy. Entire sections of the beautiful living crystal had been amputated and crated off. Graffiti had been spray-painted on the translucent walls, tainting the panoramic view. He cataloged every insult, every desecration, flying so fast he became a living Möbius strip.

The more agitated he became, the more aloof Kara was. She calmly toed a door fragment that came up to her waist. "Given human strength – or lack thereof – they'd need mechanized assistance to remove the door, plus a jamming device to interrupt the energy field reinforcing it… the ability to build the jamming device, requiring an eighth-level intellect…"

"Stop talking, I know who did this."

Superman had come to a stop, hovering over the Fortress's central atrium. He was trembling with rage, cape fluttering membrane-like with each quake. Like a twitchy animal. Before him, the cradle where all that remained of his father had rested in a crystal tomb. Now all it held was a set of neatly chiseled block letters reading "Lex Luthor was here." As if stricken, Superman touched down, gently rattling the entire Fortress.

"Clark, I know this is a bad time… but I need to know about Zod."

"Zod?" Superman reached out to touch the writing. "I took care of Zod. He's in the Phantom Zone."

Kara gulped. "But he… I mean… _how could you?_"

"He was a psychopath. He tried to take over Krypton." _Calm down. Stay cool. See if Lex left any traps, see if he took anything._

"No, you're wrong! You're lying!"

Superman whirled on her. "Zod was a lunatic and a monster! He subjugated Earth!"

"Can you blame him? These people, they keep killing and killing and they never stop! I can _hear them!_ They're crying out for a firm hand, someone to save them from themselves."

"No, that's—I don't have time for this." Luthor. He had to find Luthor.

"Didn't you ever ask why he tried to lead a coup on Krypton?"

"I don't care. He was power-mad, evil…"

"It was your father!"

Superman froze, as still as the crystal that surrounded him.

Kara sneered nastily. "Jor-El told Zod that Krypton would be destroyed. The General knew that the Science Council would dither and waste time, so he took matters into his own hands. Just like you do." She began prodding him in the chest. "He was trying to save the world! If your beloved father hadn't betrayed him, our family would still be alive!"

Superman grabbed her hand. "**You're wrong!**"

"It's right there in the crystals. Or has Jor-El been lying to you to cover his shame? I was there. He didn't care about Krypton, so long as you survived. He was a coward who condemned home to—" Her voice cracked. "All I ever wanted… Kal…"

Superman turned slowly to the open space where his father's hologram had once been a constant fixture, the sun around which his world spun. It was dead. Empty.

Clark had been in this position before. After he gave up his powers and went against Jor-El's wishes, the AI had fallen silent for what had seemed like an eternity before sacrificing itself… himself for Kal-El. Then, he'd had no one to blame but himself. Now, though…

His fists tightened like suns collapsing into neutron stars. His body broke the sound barrier almost before he left the ground, then he crashed through the ceiling. Kara watched him go, for the first time not really wanting to be with him.

* * *

Kitty Kowalski had been blessed with good looks, and not much else. She was canny without being smart, pretty without being beautiful, and cursed with a knack for attracting the wrong sort of man. Which Gotham City, her hometown, provided in spades. Following a string of bad luck, shed had a run of good. A job in the Wayne Enterprises mailroom, a reasonably good-looking (and nice) boss to flirt with, and her super finally got around to fixing the cable reception. She attributed this to going by Kitty instead of Katherine. Kitty was so much more approachable.

Then, one of the smaller-scale Luthor-Wayne pissing matches took place. Lex had been touring an office building that he was considering buying when he spotted her. She'd been nobody in particular, and her anonymity appealed to him. It vexed both the press and other, more high-profile lovers for him to date her.

For six months he showered her with gifts and attention, then abruptly tired of her and "demoted" Kitty to the receptionist of Lex Tower. She probably should've expected as much from a relationship that she'd had to sign a non-disclosure agreement to enter into. Still, receptionist had perks. It was kind of like being the public face of Lexcorp. And she did get to meet Superman.

He was just standing there in the lobby, arms crossed, with an expression that showed he would brook no fools. Everyone else in the room wisely refrained from autograph-seeking or photography. Kitty pressed the silent alarm that was supposed to summon that creepy Mr. Corben, but no one came. And in remarkably short order, the line waiting to petition Lexcorp dwindled away. Superman stepped up to the front desk, setting his palms flat against the desktops so gently that the wood creaked.

"Where's. Luthor?"

Somewhere through the haze of her intimidation, Kitty managed to recall her employee handbook. "Mr. Luthor isn't in right now. If you leave your name, contact information, and business, Mr. Luthor may attempt to contact you for an appointment."

"'Mr. Luthor' has something that belongs to me."

"For any criminal allegations against Mr. Luthor, I am to refer you to the Lexcorp legal department."

"I x-rayed this entire building. I don't _think_ he's in one of the lead-lined areas, but I'd rather not tear this building apart to find out."

Kitty gulped dry. "Lex isn't here. He left on a business trip."

"That's easy enough to verify. I memorized Luthor's heartbeat a long time ago."

He took a deep breath, as if calming himself, then closed his eyes. The lobby, already reduced to hushed voices, completely shut up. Although, realistically, they could've been banging pots and pans next to his head and it wouldn't have mattered. A few moments passed, in which Kitty became staggeringly aware of how loud her own heartbeat was. Then Superman cocked his head to one side in confusion, shook his head as if to clear it, and opened his eyes.

"I can't hear him," Superman said, his face clouded over with something Kitty couldn't quite put her finger on. "I can't hear him anywhere."

"Would you like to leave a message?" Kitty asked hopefully.

Superman looked _directly_ at her, his face setting with old rage. "Yes, I would." He whirled around, facing the giant steel statue of Lex that dominated the lobby. Heat lashed out of his eyes, first in distorted waves – they just _started_ to burn the statue – then in concentrated red lasers that penetrated into it, making the steel glow red as it bubbled and ran like an ice sculpture in a sauna. For an entire minute, Superman's expression never changed and the energy never stopped pouring out of his eyes. Finally, the statue was a pool of molten metal, dripping off its former pedestal. The tide of slag washed over the plaque identifying the thankful charity that had ostensibly commissioned the statue.

"Tell Luthor that the next time I see him, I'm molding that into his prison bars."


	13. Pixie Dust

Richard White was a victim of his own success. The international section was a stitch-up; Superman doing this in Paraguay or that in Sierra Leone. By the time he had put it to bed, though, Lois was jonesing for a trip to Gotham to cover the Masquerade Massacre (as she'd dubbed it, with one too many As) and Jimmy was on the roof, looking for a shot of Superman to replace the stock photo on Lifestyle's front page.

Clark had already turned in his assignment and gone home early. Richard envied him a quiet evening at home. He hadn't had to keep three correspondents from phrasing "Superman saved the day" the same.

Grabbing his coat and slinging it over his arm, Richard walked into his uncle's office. Perry was adjusting the front page lay-out, a dart stuck to his forehead. Jason was taking cover behind an overturned chair, reloading his toy gun.

"Jason, what've we told you about shooting unarmed men?"

Jason relinquished his weapon as Richard hoisted him up. "It's good?"

"No, the other thing."

"Bad?"

"That's the one."

Richard tapped on the window, attracting Lois's attention. She looked up from her computer and Richard brandished Jason at her, asking if she wanted him. She motioned for him to bring their son over. Richard opened the door for Jason and sent him on his way, closing it behind him.

"Richard, you've got a good kid." Perry reached into his desk for a humidor. "Shame I care too much about him to smoke one of these with him in here."

"And me?" Richard asked, sitting down.

"This is the closest you'll ever come to a fine cigar," Perry said as he lit up. "You can thank me later."

"You're all heart, Uncle Perry."

Richard crossed his legs and leaned back as Perry continued to work on the front page. One wall was covered in notable front pages Perry had shepherded, many of them having to do with Superman. You couldn't help but feel inadequate next to him. Sure, if there was some objectivity you could be inspired or protected, but when you _knew_ a comparison was being made… Richard made a muscle with his arm. Maybe it was about time for him to renew his gym membership.

"Something bothering you?" Perry asked through his cigar.

"It's nothing."

"Lois?"

"Yeah."

"Go on, spill. My brother will never forgive me if he doesn't get his grandkids."

"I already have—"

"Plural. And a ring around her finger would be nice too, while I'm asking."

Richard stood up and, hands in his pockets, approached the wall. Superman always seemed to be in a pose that showed off every muscle, like he had been chiseled by some classical artisan. In every image he was rippling with power, yet still modest… confident, but not arrogant. Masculine, but not macho. Richard knew from experience it was an alluring combination. Certainly, Lois had seemed to go for it when it was him…

Damn.

"What was she like, Lois?" Richard questioned, staring at the byline under _I Spent The Night With Superman_. "When Superman was around, what was Lois like?"

"Not cynical." Perry joined Richard by the wall, arms crossed under his chest. "You know Peter Pan?"

"Dad used to read it to me."

"Our mom used to read it to him. Peter Pan made people fly. He made them young at heart. He made them let go of their worries and fears…"

"But he also kept them from growing up, made them forget what was real…" Richard looked out the window to where Jason was sitting on Lois's lap, 'helping' her write her article. "Forget what was important."

"Everyone and everything has a dark side, Rich." Perry clapped his nephew on the shoulder. "Superman may have made Lois feel like a girl again, but she grew up and chose you. And why would she go back to Never-Never Land when she has you?"

"To fly?"

* * *

Richard loved the Metropolis night. He'd traveled the world, seen the Van Gogh/_Starry Night_ baroqueness of Gotham after dark, the visual smorgasbord of the Strip at night. But the Metropolis city lights, almost as bright as the huge stars that mirrored them, were like a promise of the coming morning. The darkness didn't hold sway here.

A red comet with a gold nucleus skimmed the sky. It slowed, turned, and Superman waved at them. Richard waved back a bit pettily as Jimmy took a picture.

"So what's the story with him and Lois?"

"Story? Where's a story? I always figured that Lois had something worked out with old Supes. He knew she was the best, so he gave her the inside scoop. Plus, and I only know this cuz of my deep insight into his character and psychology and whatnot, I think Superman had a bit of a thing for her."

Superman had a thing for his fiancé. It was like hearing Colin Farrell had bought your girlfriend a drink.

"And did she… reciprocate?"

Jimmy laughed a little. "You know Lois."

"Not as well as I thought, apparently. James, listen, do you think…"

"What're you so worried about? Lois loves you."

"Yeah. Of course." Richard looked into the stars. Somewhere out there, Superman was winging away to another crisis. _Keep going. You've seen wonders I've never even dreamed of. Let me keep this one._

Lost in thought, he went back inside. Jimmy was excitingly babbling about how he'd caught Superman with the exact right lens for the exact right distance, but this time Richard couldn't pay him any mind. Lois had been… different, since Superman returned. It wasn't just guilt from the article. When she typed, her fingers flew across the keyboard. When she laughed, it was richer than he'd heard before. When they made love…

Richard clenched a fist, listening to the knuckles pop. He was really letting this get away from him. Issues of inadequacy making him see things that weren't there. No matter what Lois had had with Superman, she had built a life with him and she wasn't the kind of person who would chuck that to the wayside just because an old beau was back in town. He had nothing to worry about.

* * *

He kissed Lois on the cheek when he came back, ruffled Jason's hair with his hand. "It's getting pretty late. I'll take Jason home. You gonna be long?"

"Not long now. Don't wait up. Apostrophe in the possessive form of it? I keep forgetting…"

"No apostrophe, just an s."

"Groovy." Lois resumed typing.

Just before they were out of Lois's earshot, Jason said "Can we get McDonald's?" and Lois automatically answered "No," which Richard mouthed along with. Jason looked adorably downcast.

* * *

The car ride alone nearly put Jason to sleep, so instead of waking him Richard just carried him to bed, tugged his sneakers off, and tucked him in.

"Don't I gotta brush my teeth?" Jason asked sleepily.

"You brushed after dinner, right? That'll do until morning."

"Daddy, can you tell me a story?"

Richard sat down on the bed. "Sure thing, slugger. Anything in specific or is it more of my adventures as a high school quarterback?"

"Tell me a story about Superman."

Richard bit the inside of his cheek. "I don't really know any stories about him. I didn't live in Metropolis when he was around."

"But there's gotta be _something_… _please_?"

Richard thought about it. "There was this one time that was in all the papers. Superman thought he was the last survivor of Krypton, but there were three others. Criminals, trapped in a very special prison…"

* * *

Richard flipped through channels. The news blitz on Superman wasn't just news. It was in sketch comedies, an episode of South Park, talk shows, a Mythbusters rerun about his powers… everywhere.

When Lois got home, Richard was stretched out on the couch with his shirt unbuttoned and his socked feet on the armrest; his shoes, tie, and jacket were neatly put away. Lois locked the door behind her and checked the home security system. It was on.

"Oh hey Lois," Richard said, staring at a blaring infomercial. "I know you said 'don't wait up,' but I must've ate something that went down wrong, because I can just not get my eyes shut."

Lois sat on the back of the couch, reaching down to pet him along the back of his neck. "Come on. It's been a long day and..."

"What if they're all long days?" Laboriously, Richard sat up. "Huh?"

Lois began resolutely unbuttoning her blouse. "Richard, I don't know what you're on about. All I know is that it's been a long day and I want to go to bed."

Richard sat up a little further as Lois peeled off her blouse. A thin, satiny lace bra enclosed her breasts. His eyes bored into the valley between them.

"You coming?"

Undoing the last few buttons on his shirt, Richard followed her to the bedroom.

* * *

It was good, but she wanted it to be better. Forgoing gentleness, she clutched at his ass, cinched his waist within her legs. He drove into her harder and Lois moaned into his mouth as he kissed her roughly, hands groping her, their lovemaking so fast and wild that the sheets flew off their bodies. Lois came with Richard over her, then listened to his breathing slowly lessen until he'd caught his breath.

"Felt like I was flying," she said as she cozied into his chest, his arms thick and strong around her.

Even though that might've been a Freudian slip, Richard let it go. What had he been thinking, going around all day suspicious that he was in a love triangle with _Superman_, of all people? Nothing had changed. Lois still loved him, _was the mother of his child, for Christ's sake_, and they were all still one big, happy, mildly dysfunctional family.

Lois went to sleep, her flushed skin slowly returning to its midnight pallor. He wondered what she was dreaming of as she began to lightly snore, her eyes already twitching beneath her shut eyelids…

* * *

Lois awoke, and was instantly quite sure she was having a dream. She was just that kind of reporter. Her brain couldn't even switch off during a fantasy.

In this one, she was at her old penthouse apartment, on the balcony, having a smoke… and even the dream of nicotine felt great. She puffed satisfyingly and wondered when her subconscious was going to throw her a loop. Lois was generally a pretty well-put-together woman, without the insecurities or anxieties that plagued most, so anything that she had to deal with in the dream-world instead of the waking world would have to be amazingly disconcerting. More than one story had haunted her here, awaiting resolution. But other than the sabotage, which she was already making headway on, there was nothing…

"Ms. Lane," Superman said, as he came out onto the balcony through her apartment. He was as bright and optimistic as she remembered him, with the garish, larger-than-life costume he'd worn when he was just starting out. This must've been before he'd become disillusioned… before he'd left.

Superman had never set out to change the world, just help it. And yet, there must've been times when it seemed he couldn't even do that. And maybe, just maybe, there was one part of the world he'd wanted for himself that had been denied to him…

"Superman," Lois said, reading from a script in her head that compelled her to follow its unknown text. "God, that's a mouthful. Can't I call you something shorter?"

She sauntered toward him, feeling a pang of guilt. But this wasn't real, wasn't anything more than her mind trying to digest some unresolved psychobabble.

"Supes?"

It was perfectly harmless for her to invade that bubble of awe and sometimes fear that kept most people away…

"Big blue?"

Perfectly harmless to lay her hands on the shield of his costume and feel the passionate beat of the heart underneath.

"Kal-El?"

"Kal would be fine," Superman said in a tone that was warm even for him. Invitingly warm. His heart was doing double-time, but that could've just been his alien physiology.

"Kal, then." She reached up to tilt his head downward, seeing his lips part slightly and his eyes dart over her body. "Call me Lois."

"Lois," he said, drawling it out into a playful, seductive tease, as he kissed her, pressing her back, his hands sure and confident as they asserted where she fumbled, stripping her clothes from her body as they made their way to the bed, plush, silvery, shining like it wasn't of her world at all…

But instead of falling to its soft contours, she met nothing but air. She fell, leaving Superman above her to dwindle into the distant red of his cape, a crimson star in the night sky that winked out. Lois screamed, fell forever, was caught. She looked to her savior and saw a pair of spectacles over blue eyes, a square jaw with a smile etched over it.

"Easy, Lois, I've got you," Clark said.

And that's when she woke up, her heart pounding, her flesh oiled with sweat.

"Can't sleep?" Richard asked.

Lois used the bedsheets to mop at her face.

"Me neither." He grabbed the remote from the bedstand. "Any preferences?"

"Something made after the 1970s."

"But that's when they stopped making good movies," Richard protested mildly, switching the TV on.

They channel-surfed for a while, though infomercials and public domain movies and Luthor Classic Movies, which showed actual classics in widescreen and without commercials, but Richard couldn't watch it with Lois around. Lois cuddled into Richard as he relentlessly worked the channel button.

Richard wondered whether anyone else saw her like this. Not vulnerable, but… open. Beyond even the warmth demanded of motherhood, there was a part of her that wanted to lean on someone, and be leaned on as well. There was a part of her that wanted a family, and not one like the Daily Planet staff that she could keep at arm's length. But more than that, there was something in her that wanted to believe in fairy tale princes and magic kisses.

He just hoped he could live up to it.

"Wait, go back," Lois said, grabbing Richard's remote hand. He flipped back to a talk show, one of those insipid ones that they handed out to celebrities like door prizes. There was a Superman graphic on the bottom of the screen. Richard resisted the urge to groan. It was the wee hours of the morning in Metropolis, but due to the time differential, Gotham was up and at 'em. So was its morning show.

One of the guests, a portly middle-aged man and Gotham regular, was in mid-sentence. "--socially transformative. Since the Batman started his campaign against crime, corrupt cops have been rooted out, James Gordon has become police commissioner, there was a sharp decline in crime…"

"Followed by a return to status quo, not to mention the Arkham Asylum break-out and the Crane terrorist gassing," another guest retorted. "Across the board, Gotham's citizens report that they're still afraid to walk the streets at night. In fact, they're more afraid! Now they have a psychopath who dresses up like a bat to worry about. The exact same thing will and is happening to Metropolis, and the world. Now that we have Superman to rely on, what incentive is there for us to solve our own problems?"

"Another of Lex's sock puppets," Lois groused bitterly.

Richard turned up the volume.

"Could that be why Superman left?" the host asked. "Because he thought mankind was too dependent on him?"

"Superman left because he knew he wasn't welcome after the Zod attacks."

"But couldn't there be something to how astronomers detected a signal from the site of Superman's homeworld mere weeks before he left?"

"That's hardly conclusive. Krypton is dead, Superman told us so himself. Why would he abandon a live world for a dead one?"

"But we only have his word that Krypton is dead."

"I would like to note at this point that my colleague still clings to his sleeper agent theory."

"Which was vindicated, I should add. Zod and his soldiers…"

"Zod was defeated _by_ Superman."

"So he claims. Superman won't tell us where he's imprisoned the Kryptonians, he won't tell us where he's been for the last five years—"

"He told us—"

"I think the most pressing question of the 21st century is what does Superman have to hide? He says he lives in a Fortress of Solitude… heh, why a fortress? If Krypton is as advanced… heh heh… as he claims, why won't he share this – aha – potentially lifesaving technology with the public? And… hehehe… _what's with the red underwear outside the pants?_ HA! Seriously, it's been five years and he hasn't figured out that underpants go on UNDER the PANTS! HAHAHAHAHA!"

The audience was laughing along, like they were at a sitcom, tittering at each syllable, losing themselves in riotous laughter, hacking and coughing as their laughter became deranged. The host looked around, confused at her own laughter, eyes wide and scared, before she laughed up a gurgle of blood. The camera fell on its side, the cameraman obviously falling victim to the same disease.

Lois was already out of bed, throwing on a pair of pants. She threw Richard some clothes as well. "Get the Gotham desk on the phone, something's happening, this show is broadcast nationally…"

"Lois, look!"

The camera had righted itself, the lens smudged by gloved hands. A pale man in a purple tuxedo stepped back, holding a stack of cue cards. He smiled at the camera, the rictus making Lois shiver, and showed his first cue card to the screen.

It was a cartoonish scrawl of a bat, done in crayon.

The smiling man dropped the cue card. The next one had the same bat, but with a red circle around it and a cross drawn through it.

"People of Gotham, America, and the world… I… am the Joker. Hold your applause, please."

He sauntered over to the host's desk, dumping the rictus-grinned corpse out of her chair, and sat down, putting his feet up on the desk.

"For too long, there's been a fascist freak in tights… perhaps you've heard of him, goes by the name of Batman, 'bout ye high, wears a cape… deciding who lives and who dies in Gotham. Well, I've gotta tell ya… that sounds like fun! So from here on out, I'm gonna cop a page from the Bat's handbook. So consider this me serving notice… William Earle. You die at midnight, tonight. But until then…"

The Joker reached under the desk and pulled out a sombrero, which he put on.

"Why not spend some time at Uncle Nick's Fajita Round-up? An affordable dining experience you'll never forget, free enchiladas with every meal, and a chicken fajita platter for just four dollars. It's the finest Tex-Mex north of the border. Off Interstate 17, just north of Phoenix." He threw the sombrero away like a frisbee. "What? I've got bills to pay too. Show's over, folks. Get up, go to work, and always remember… you're nothing more than cavemen playing dress-up."

The screen went to a test pattern.


	14. Morning In Gotham

**1 A.M.**

Barbara had never been so embarrassed in her life. First, she'd had to hitchhike back home, taking off her cowl and turning her cape into a kind of poncho-shawl-thing. She probably looked like a Rocky-Horror-themed hooker. Then she'd walked the last few blocks. As lucky as she'd been to find the only trucker in the state with a love of show tunes (literally, he had the original cast recording of Sweeney Todd on his radio), that walk was harrowing. Even though they lived in a nice neighborhood, in Gotham, nice was relative.

Getting home she'd had to climb in through her window to evade Mom. She stripped off her costume and hid it in the closet, then, too tired to even shower, she'd collapsed into bed.

There was a knock at the window.

Barbara got up, then instinctively covered her already-bra-covered chest. Dick was outside her window, balanced on the windowsill like a bird on a wire. With a rather churlish impatience he pointed to the clasp on the window, which Barbara undid. In short order, Dick had the window open and his head shoved inside the room, although Barbara stood in front of the window to prevent him from getting any further in.

"What're you doing here?"

"I heard about what happened at the costume party. Are you okay?"

_Yes. I went there dressed as Batman and kinda managed to be a superhero there, helping to foil a hostage situation before I wrecked my best friend's bike._ "I didn't go."

"Thank God." He hugged her. "Babs, you know I love you, but damnit if you don't have the worst luck."

"You love me?"

He backed away, his grin a tad lessened. "Well, you know…"

She let him off the hook. "I know. Listen, you need to get out of here. If my dad…"

Before she could say another word, Dick grabbed her by the hair and kissed her. It came as something of a shock, but all the emotion bubbled up within her and she was left dangling in his embrace, letting him rub her back comfortingly.

"Dick, it's really late."

"Yeah, uh-huh." He patted her. "See you at school?"

"Yeah, sure."

"First time I've ever looked forward to the weekend being over." He went out the window again. "Nice bra, by the way."

Barbara blushed furiously.

**3 A.M.**

The last cop car pulled away, taking Harvey home, its lights flashing silently, spilling jeweled light on the lawn and gate of the Wayne property. Bruce watched it go, his hands in his pockets. He had changed into a simple, dignified suit. No jacket or coat, just an untucked buttondown and belted slacks. His shoes were on and neatly tied, which was a minor discrepancy, but in every way he was the traumatized homeowner, offering coffee and other refreshments to the men investigating the crime. It galled him to have to maintain the fiction while the Joker was running free, to not slip out into the comforting second skin of the Batman and hunt that murderer down, but maintaining the Bruce Wayne identity was important. To his father, to Alfred, to the mission.

To him, too, though less and less as years went by.

"Master Wayne?" Alfred said. He was standing in the doorway of the room, a housecoat pulled around him for warmth. The old man should be in bed by now. Bruce knew Alfred didn't sleep well while the Batman was out. But he did sleep.

"Bruce Wayne can't be seen throwing bad guys around. Think up some embarrassing social gaffe for me to make."

"I'll call the rehab clinic to see if there are any young celebrities of dubious chastity for you to be seen with."

"Try to find one wearing underwear this time." He turned around, slicking back his hair with his fingers. "There was a woman at the party, Talia. Find out what hospital she was taken to. Send some flowers."

"Right away. I have some tea brewing in the kitchen, if you'd like."

Bruce nodded. "I would, thank you."

They walked to the kitchen, and as they walked Alfred held out a burnt, crumpled license plate.

"I took the liberty of retrieving this from the motorbike wreckage. It could be a clue to your sidekick's identity."

"I work alone," Bruce said firmly. "Whoever this woman is, I'll have to disabuse her of this nonsense before she gets hurt."

"Yes, I imagine the last thing Gotham needs is a lawless vigilante running around, righting wrongs and…"

Bruce shot him a nasty look. "Set out the suit. I can't imagine tonight will be very productive, but I can set the wheels in motion."

"Very good, sir."

**4 A.M.**

Justin Thomas slept in a simple, spartan space. He imagined it was where Batman would sleep, if Batman didn't have his god-given resources. He moved around a lot to avoid his enemies, sleeping wherever his people would put him up, but the room above the mechanic's garage was his favorite. There were no rats in the walls.

"Justin Thomas," a voice said. _The_ voice said.

Justin sat bolt-upright.

"We need to talk," the Batman said. He was crouched on the fire escape like a living gargoyle, the cool night air brushing his cape like it was gossamer.

Justin's fingers twitched. _This must be what Catholics feel when they cross themselves._

"Anything."

"I need you to get your boys out on the street. Find out anything you can about the Joker. I'll come back in the evening to find out what you've learned."

Justin's heart leapt in his chest. Another visitation! "Can I ask a question?"

The shape nodded. "You may."

"When will it happen?"

"When will _what_ happen?"

A test! "The day when you sweep away all the scum, the trash, the pushers, the dopers, the junkies, the sick, the venal, the perverts. When will you cleanse Gotham?"

"Don't hold your breath," the Batman said before he disappeared.

**5 A.M.**

Dawn. He should be getting back. But there was still grist for the Batman's mill. A mugging nearby. He swooped down to stop it. There was at least one more evil he could set right before morning came, one more casualty he could inflict on the forces that infested his home.

Batman's fists shot out, cuffing the mugger about the head. His gun was fumbled, his retaliations were ineffectual. His victim ran. The Batman had him. The mugger pulled a knife. He was a fool, thinking a simple length of steel gave him power. A boy taunting a bear with a stick.

There were seven working defenses from the Batman's current position. Three of them disarmed with minimal contact. Three of them killed. The other just _hurt_.

Necessary evil, Bruce thought, as the mugger screamed and pissed himself and swore. Lot of that going around these days. Like Justin Thomas, the Wiggins of his Baker Street Irregulars. Unbalanced, certainly, but useful. His delusions were no worse than Bruce's own. Gotham couldn't be brought back. It was too far gone, its descent started before Bruce was ever born. But its plunge could be held back, stalled, its people spared for the moment. The war went on… a never-ending battle, as Harvey said.

He kept hitting him, bruising the meat. Men like him thought they could reign over Gotham with impunity, just because they had guns. They thought they were above the law. They thought they could hurt people and they wouldn't be punished.

Hurt Talia…

The Batman cuffed the mugger and did a spiel. When the police came for him, he would confess everything. It was as Falcone had said, all those years ago. Fear had power.

**8 A.M.**

Tim didn't have nightmares. He just had a big, black awareness of time passing. Every muscle in his body felt loose and sore when he woke up. His clock radio had switched on, Art Bell blabbing about the Joker. AM radio always went crazy when a new supervillain turned up. Tim hadn't thought about how exploitative it was until he'd been a part of it. He switched the radio off, showered, dressed.

Came downstairs with his tie hanging limp around his neck and his blazer slung over his shoulder. The scent of coffee was thick in the air and he also detected a hint of blueberry. Just as he thought, the latest in a stack of pancakes was sizzling on the skillet.

"Blueberry pancakes; your favorite, right?" Dana asked as she flipped a pancake.

Stunned by this surrealism, Tim just mutely nodded. Dana was in a morning gown and slippers, while Jack wore a gray sweatsuit. An open newspaper concealed his unshaven face. Tim's eyes widened in surprise to see Chloe Sullivan at the breakfast table with Jack, wearing her Jackie Kennedy 2000 blouse-jacket-skirt combo, with a vintage derby hat to complete the ensemble. She was dressed to impress… Tim's parents.

"Blueberry, huh? You're a man of good taste, small-fry."

Dana sat Tim down by Chloe, setting down a plate of pancakes in front of him. Tim numbly poured maple syrup all over them.

"Miss Sullivan's been telling us what a help you've been to her," Jack said, flapping his newspaper.

"Yes, I think it's safe to say Tim has a bright future in journalism," Chloe said brightly.

"Thanks," Tim said.

Tim kept quiet after that, automatically deferring to the adult conversation. He always got so self-conscious at times like these. It wasn't that he was ashamed of his parents, he just… well, Chloe was nice and she seemed to like him, and it would suck hard if she found out he was just some kid instead of…

"Mr. Alfred has offered to take you to school," his stepmom was saying. "Your father and I have to go over some papers, so you'll have to either find your own ride home or call a taxi."

"I could drive him, Mrs. Drake," Chloe said.

"Oh, I'd hate to inconvenience you…"

"It's on the way back to Gotham, right? I'm headed that way myself, obviously. Besides, better I go a little out of my way than poor Alfred makes a whole trip."

"Can I? Please?" Tim asked, although he tried hard to make it sound like an assertion instead of a question.

"Let the boy go," Jack said. "I don't trust those people over at Wayne manor…"

"Jack!"

"I just don't… always coming and going at strange hours, those weird excavations."

"Excavations?" Chloe asked with an eyebrow raised. She surreptitiously reached into her purse for her recorder.

"Mr. Wayne is just shoring up the foundations of his house," Dana said, smiling sweetly. "As I've _told_ Jack…"

"We should get going." Tim hopped from the table before his parents could further parent him. "Can't wait for that education, and all."

Jack and Dana looked suspicious.

"Plus, we don't wanna keep Chloe."

Chloe smiled as she jangled her keys. "He's right, we wouldn't want to get caught in traffic." She patted Tim's shoulder. "Would it be alright if I bring him home too? You know how cabs are in this city."

An awkward moment passed as the Drakes' looks confirmed they'd long since forgotten how Gotham cabs were.

"I don't see why Tim can't just get a ride from one of his friends," Jack said.

Tim looked down at his shoes.

"Most kids his age can't afford to make the trip out here, with gas costing what it does."

"And you?"

"I own a hybrid car. And I'd love to talk some more about those weird excavations when there's more time."

"I could set an extra place at the table, if you don't mind eating dinner early," Dana offered.

"And finally get to taste some of that home cooking your son's always bragging about? Count me in."

Tim tapped his foot.

"Thanks for breakfast, Mrs. Drake," Chloe said as she hustled out of there with Tim.

* * *

"Nice folks, your parents," Chloe said as they walked down the long driveway.

"Sometimes when I see Mr. Wayne, he winces. Like he's in pain, or strained himself. He carries himself like that all the time." Tim's intensity was like a lightswitch being flicked. And, just as abruptly, it flicked off. "And Dana's not my mom, she's my dad's wife."

"Oh." Chloe bit her lip.

"Car jacking," Tim said. "He had a gun, she saw his face. That was before we moved out of the city. Out here."

"I'm sorry." Chloe got the car door for him. Passenger seat.

"S'okay."

Tim climbed in, shucking off his backpack. Chloe apologetically elbowed some of the detritus aside in her VW Bug. Tim was short, not gangly as most his age, but he still resisted the urge to stretch out and possibly lay a foot into the ghosts of fast-food breakfast past.

"Seatbelt," Chloe said as she got in the driver's seat. Tim obediently buckled up. "So, when did it happen, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Last year."

Chloe was startled. "Pretty quick for your dad to remarry, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

Very carefully, Chloe started the engine, took the Volkswagen out of park, and backed out of the driveway. She could see Jack watching from the window, newspaper folded under his arm.

"Wave to your father," Chloe said, and Tim did.

They drove off.

"You wanna listen to the radio?"

"No, that's okay."

"Well, I do." She flipped it on. Some old band started playing, sex and drugs and rock & roll. Tim didn't figure Chloe for the type, but she banged her head pretty good for a half-second before turning serious. "I heard you were at Wayne's place when it was attacked."

Tim's head was resting against the window, his eyes looking out at the countryside scrolling past.

"I can understand if you don't want to talk about it. A lot of people are scared. Putting a rest to the rumors… letting them know the truth… it would help."

Tim's eyes slanted to look at her. "Promise not to share with the 'rents? Tell them I need pills or a headshrinker or something?"

"Hand to God."

"Okay then." Tim sat up a little, slumping straighter against his seat. "What do you want, then?"

"I want you to write an eyewitness report of everything that happened. The Joker, Batgirl, everything. Is it true that DA Dent killed a man? Where was Bruce Wayne? You'll make front page, guaranteed. With a start like that, you'd have a foot in the door of every newspaper in the country. Right place at the right time, that's how great reporters are made."

Tim's eyes shut. "Right place, right time?"

"Making the best of a bad situation. People deserve to know. With folks like the Bat and the Joker running around, they need all the warning they can get…"

"Batman's nothing like the Joker!" Tim said vehemently.

"Okay, okay, chill. See, that's another reason. You can get the truth out there. Put people's minds at ease."

"But Batman wasn't there."

"And people are wondering why he wasn't. It was pretty high-profile, and yet the Joker is still at large. They want to know that Batman can keep them safe."

"Batman'll kick that clown's ass."

"Here's hoping."

Tim bit his lip.

"I swear you can have the byline."

"No, I want to share it…" Tim nodded to himself, a couple of successive bobs. "When can we start?"

"Grab the recorder out of my purse?"

Tim dug for it, nudging aside Chloe's birth control pills to find it. Chloe set it on the dashboard and pressed record. Tim stared at it, the microcassette inside winding.

"What do I say?"

"Whatever you remember."

Tim gulped. "Okay. Well, we were at the party… should I start there or go to the beginning of the evening, give some backstory on the whole thing?"

"Start wherever you're comfortable, we'll sort it out in edit later."

"Okay." He nodded once more, then leaned forward over the tape recorder.

**8:30 A.M.**

Bruce watched Talia wake up. Even pale, her skin so stony she was practically blue, and with tubes surrounding her like links in a web, she was beautiful. It was strange, having those urges outside his normal control. He felt them, he dealt with them, that was it. He didn't keep… thinking about those things. Not since Rachel. It'd been a relief when she'd left for Bludhaven.

He didn't keep thinking about them.

"Father?" Talia said, her mouth parting slightly.

Bruce stuck a straw in a glass of water and brought it to her. "Here. Drink something."

She did, her eyes opening wider and wider as she came awake. Finally, she was able to lift her arms to push the water away.

"Bruce? Bruce Wayne? I must be dreaming…"

Bruce smiled his most charming smile and patted her hand. It wasn't because he was infatuated with her. Infatuation was a immature emotional reaction to sexual stimulus. This was damage control. He was paying her hospital bills as well as those of his other guests.

"The museum… the Arabian exhibit is opening next week."

This wasn't him, this was Bruce Wayne, millionaire playboy. And she was a newcomer to a hostile city, a stranger in a strange land… an orphan. He could be there for her, just a little bit. Until she stood on her own two feet. It wouldn't compromise the mission.

He squeezed her fingers in his hand. "I'm sure in light of recent events, they'll delay it."

"We didn't have these problems when I worked in the British Museum."

His hands were treacherous. They wanted to hold her, touch her. He permitted himself a modicum of contact. Brushed some hair out of her face.

"Tell me about it."

**8:40 A.M.**

"The Joker came in and looked at the paintings on the wall like he was an art critic. We thought he and the Stooges were an act Mr. Wayne had hired. Then the Joker defaced a painting of Thomas Wayne… Mr. Wayne's father… and Mr. Wayne went to confront him… but the Joker had a gun… it, umm, there was a woman, she tried to step in… Talia Head, from the museum, she works with my dad… w-w-we thought the gun was a fake, because it just shot out a flag that said bang, but then he pointed it at the woman and… and there was all this blood, just everywhere, and people were screaming and… and I…"

Chloe pulled over to the side of the road. "Are you okay?" His head was bowed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Chloe turned off the recorder. "Tim?" She touched his shoulder.

Tim seemed to crumble at her touch, folding against Chloe, crying and speaking in a hiccupping gargle of mangled words. "And I was so scared, he was going to kill us, he…"

Chloe put her arms around him, holding him as close as she could while he sobbed.

**9 A.M.**

Bruce was not shocked. He was never shocked. He had suspicions, of everything conceivable, and these suspicions were either confirmed or disabused. There was a very select group of truths he considered incontrovertible, and those had never been overturned. His worldview was firmly set, as unlikely to be rattled as a block of granite.

He was prepared for alien invaders from another world, natural disasters of all stripes, even supernatural events. The only thing he didn't expect was that he would find himself enjoying Talia's company. She was good conversation, and the first thing he realized that was _off_ was that he didn't have to fake laughter. The things she said to him actually struck him as funny. And he didn't think anything was all that funny, because they were all of the world and the world wasn't a funny place.

The second thing that was off, the clincher, the shock to his system, was that he was happy being with her. He wasn't a… happy person. He had satisfaction, of a case being broken, of helping someone, but actual joy was distant from him. It'd been a while since he'd felt it. There were times under Ducard's tutelage that he'd been amused by Ducard's… by Ra's's sly wit and rare deadpan humor, and there were times with Clark when he didn't feel so alone… but compared to those occasions, this was _tangible_. Tactile, not fleeting. Under his skin.

He was getting so used to it that he excused himself and walked off. When the Joker showed his face on Good Morning Gotham, he was already long gone. There didn't have to be anything suspicious about his timing. His good fortune.

**10 A.M.**

Usually at this point, Joker would be thinking of the funhouse ride he could install in his Ha-Ha-Hacienda with all the money he'd made. It'd be both a classy way to get around, and a good escape route in case the crowd turned ugly. Not that he had enough money to build one yet and not that it would fit in the Ha-Ha-Hacienda he had right now (it was a seller's market for hide-outs, anyway), but…

_But…_

(Jack hated it when his mind wandered.)

Feeling a bout of inspiration, Joker grabbed some of the chemicals he'd procured and started experimenting. The toxic reaction he was looking for was very specific, which was why he always used laughing gas as a base. But aside from that, he couldn't replicate the composition of the muck he'd been immersed in. His test subjects never laughed. At best, they gibbered. So very frustrating… he began mixing a new batch. No rush. He had all day before the sun went down and the whores came out, so lush and verdant and so vocal about exactly what they were experiencing… when they weren't screaming.

He hadn't made that much money. He hadn't been expecting to; crashing the party had been all about crashing the party, just like killing that annoying host and his annoying guests. First impressions were _so_ important, after all. What vexed him was losing his henchmen this early. After all, they were his to kill and nothing about their demises had been Stooge-like. Totally out of character. At least Curly's death had been a joke played on that Wayne gazillionaire. Maybe for the next set of henchmen he'd go for a Marx Brothers motif.

But no, then one of them would be Groucho, and Groucho would upstage him. That wouldn't do. Maybe it was time he quit with the homages. He'd paid his dues, now it was time for some fresh material. _Yeaaah, that's the ticket!_ Maybe some clown make-up, just to set them apart from the average goon…

Someone harrumphed behind him. There was only one person Joker knew who harrumphed.

"Three men," the Penguin said, prodding the door open with his umbrella. A handkerchief hung from the doorknob, allowing him to emphatically not touch it. "I gave you three men. Was it too much to ask that you come back with one of them alive?"

"Moe didn't even get to jail. He hitched a ride on a passing prison break. That's the kind of go-getting I like to see in an employee, and what I love about this city. Every time I think it can't sink any lower, it does. Restores my faith in inhumanity. The rest… just saves on overhead, Pengy." Joker dug a batter into his mixture and stirred vigorously. The smell offended Cobblepot's delicate nostrils.

"What is _that_?"

"Joker Juice! Just like mom used to make! A pinch of arsenic, a dash of mustard gas, a generous helping of cyanide, and a sprinkling of garlic – just for flavor." Joker licked the batter. "That's a spicy meatsa-ball!"

Again using his umbrella as a manipulator, Cobblepot picked up the lid of the crock pot Joker was cooking in and set it down atop the foul-smelling experiment. Joker wondered if his frown would turn upside-down when he drowned in it. But no. No. The juice wasn't ready yet. Needed more experiments. Although he still hadn't fed the old ones to the gators. An artist's work was never done.

"I make more money rigging my casinos then you've done with your very public fiascoes. When does the Bat die?"

Joker pulled up a chair for the Penguin. "Patience, patience! Ozzie, my sweet little flightless bird, the Bat is bigger than the man… so far. But I know what makes him tick. He craves order. Worships it! Fetishizes it. It gets him hard, and I don't just mean that in the crude sexual sense… although who knows, with a guy who runs around in that much black leather…"

"But what's the point of killing a talk show?" Cobblepot interrupted, most rudely. _Hecklers._

Joker frowned. Then he shoved Penguin back into the untaken chair. "I WAS GETTING TO THAT!" Then, his smile slowly regaining equilibrium, Joker walked around the Penguin, jauntily spinning him. "Batman has a _thing_ for order. Confront him with a problem he can't solve… namely, _moi_… and he'll start to breakdown. It's inevitable. The more I push, the further he'll teeter. And when he falls… when he falls, he'll _suffer_. But you have to tell the joke before you can get to the punchline. Just be patient, Ozzie… and send me more men! Oh, and a rocket launcher."

**11:00 A.M.**

School was weird. The powers that be were in full trauma mode, just because some guy had dressed up like a clown and killed people. That was just, like, Gotham, you know. Sure, it was messed up that it happened to Bruce Wayne, but it wasn't like anyone knew him. It was just that it could happen to anyone. What really got people talking was

"Batgirl."

"—so hot—"

"such a ho"

"I heard she was Batman's dark mistress"

"No way, Batgirl's a dyke"

"the Batwiki said she was young, like our age"

"Is that Drake's website? He's a freak"

"He was there"

"He was Batgirl. Drake's a cross-dresser. Totally Glen or Glenda, man"

"No, see, Batman needs a youthful sidekick to counteract the darkness in his soul," a goth said in lunch period. She was instantly pelted with cafeteria food.

Barbara walked away from the lunch line, feeling very pleased with herself. People who wouldn't give her the time of day as nerdy Barbara Gordon were electing Batgirl a sex symbol. This must've been what Benjamin Franklin felt like after writing one of his Silence Dogood letters. Only… with go-go boots.

Feeling particularly sexy, she found Dick's lunch table and sat down in his lap. He one-upped her by kissing her neck in a very _adult_ way. She felt like Grace Kelly with her leading man. Then she looked at who Dick was sitting with.

"Barbara, these are the boys. Boys, this is Babs."

"Don't call me Babs."

"She's my girlfriend," Dick added nonchalantly. "Barbara, this is Raven." A pale-skinned goth girl with purple streaks in her hair nodded. She was wearing a dark hoodie and black jeans. "Donna, she's a foreign exchange." A woman who looked more WB than real teenager gave a cheerful wave. "Garth." A nerdy-looking kid drank from a bottle of water. "And Roy." A stoner with a peach-fuzz goatee coughed on his blunt.

"You know marijuana's a gateway drug, right?" Barbara said to him, nervous.

He blew smoke in her face. "Where'd you dig her up, Dickie-boy?"

"Lay off her, she's cool. Take my word for it."

Everyone was staring at Barbara. She didn't feel sexy anymore. She felt frumpy, dowdy… like a librarian or something.

"I don't usually do that," she assured the freaks and geeks.

"Kiss, you mean?"

Barbara nodded. "Uh-huh."

"Riiiight," Dick drawled. "Well, unless anyone else would like to hear awkward personal information…"

Roy raised his hand.

"I got something cool," Raven said, pulling a black-cased iPhone from her pocket. "Gar told me about it in third period. The Joker went on Good Morning Gotham and killed, like, everybody."

"No way," Garth said.

Raven played the video file. They watched in silence. Barbara felt sick to her stomach.

"Makes you wonder if he's gonna call off the hit on the Gotham Parkers. I wouldn't want to die with that on my karma."

"Yep," Dick said darkly. "Someone should do something."

An idea occurred to Barbara. A dangerous, stupid, irresponsible idea. She loved it.

"Maybe… Batgirl will do something."

**3:40 PM**

Tim waited on the curb, watching the car show. It happened every day at Brentwood. Students either took their own cars or were picked up in Rolls-Royces, sports cars, limos. Ives, the son of a software giant, sat next to him on a bench. Ives was a nerd, but it wasn't like Tim had room to talk. It was just that Ives was more stereotypical than Tim.

"So, who do you think would win in a fight, Batman or Superman?"

"Batman."

"Are you kidding me? Superman would toss him into the sun before Batman could blink."

"Not if Batman had Kryptonite."

"How would Batman get Kryptonite? The only chunk of it on Earth is under lock and key at STAR Labs."

"It's probably just some painted rock that Batman swapped for it during his preparation time."

"And how would he do that?"

As if he were explaining that water was wet to a particularly dense fish, Tim said "He's Batman. Duh."

A honking horn. Ives's dad, driving a convertible. Ives said goodbye and drove home with his father. Tim was left alone. He folded his fists in front of his face and tried to convince people he didn't care.

With nothing left to tether his mind down, it was drawn back to last night. Tim opened his notebook and started writing. It wasn't all bad. Batgirl… Batgirl was beautiful. It wasn't just looks, because the mask covered up most of those (although that bodysuit was tight enough to showcase her figure, and it was that of a frickin' _goddess_), but she had this grace. A rhythm of lithe motions that swung her around, electrified her from smoothly rounded thighs to swan-like neck. A mask that left her full lips exposed and her red hair cascade down her shoulders like eternally pouring wine. It was like coolness, as Tim understood it. She was hot because she didn't try to be hot. The costume left her body as it was, well-formed and well-proportioned, and the curves spoke for themselves. And she had saved him. _Him_!

By the time the shadow fell over him, Tim was five pages in and showing no signs of stopping. By the time he noticed the person had sat down beside him, he was sweating like a cold drink on a hot day. "Chloe! What're you doing here?"

"Come to pick you up. You wanna get lunch? I'm starving."

"Yeah, sure. I skipped lunch, so I could go for a burger."

"Cool. Whacha writing, anyway?"

"Your article."

Chloe glanced at it. "Awesome. Think it'll be ready for the evening edition?"

"No reason it can't be"

Chloe nodded. "You put the finishing touches on in the car, I'll edit over lunch, and by tomorrow morning you'll be making Lois Lane look like the opera critic in the Springville Chronicler."

It worked pretty much like Chloe called it. He wrote in the car (Chloe had a pretty nice stereo system, and good taste to go with it), they got lunch at one of those sit-down restaurants with the half-pound burgers and the steak fries the size of a thumb (the cook sent his regards to Chloe, who blushed and mumbled something about pulling some strings with the _Gazette_'s restaurant critic), and Chloe looked over the article as Tim made half-hearted conversation about his day at school.

"No, go on, tell me about your crush."

"It's nothing, she probably doesn't even know I exist."

"Easy fix for that," Chloe said.

"You think I'm pathetic."

"I think it's cute."

"That's worse."

Chloe set down what he'd written and took a bite out of her salad. "Okay, I think I'll trim a bit of the prose on Batgirl… it gets a bit purplish… but aside from that and some spellcheck, it's ready for publication."

Something broke loose in Tim's chest, flung itself onto its bed, and wept for four hours. "What do you mean, purplish?"

"You get all mushy when you describe her."

"Well, yeah… _she is_."

Chloe smiled and touched his hand, wrapping the fingers of it within his palm like a secret handshake.

"I know what it's like. Someone amazing comes out of the blue. They save you and for just that second, in their arms, you get the feeling that you're the most important person in the world to them. But it's only because you're their mission. Really, you come second. You want to believe you're the one for them, disguised as… something else. But they never see through your mask. And eventually, you realize you are the mask. You're nothing to them. And no matter how much you dream of the day he'll come flying to you, he never does."

"Wow," Tim said. "Are you writing a book or something?"

"What? No. I was in high school once too."

**6:42 PM - After dark.**

Jason swallowed his fear. His father had always mocked him when he was afraid, called him a fag and a scaredy-cat. But on the street, being afraid was a way of life. Fear kept you alive and free and sharp. And for as long as Jason could remember, fear of the Bat had put all the other fears to shame. Gangsters might work you over and policemen might arrest you (worse if you were a girl or they were horny), but Batman… who knew with that freak? Jason had heard about a wise guy who'd dropped thirty stories, landed without a drop of blood in his body. That just wasn't right.

Only he didn't have anything to be afraid of. Batman only went after criminals and Jason wasn't a criminal. Not a real one, anyway. He didn't hurt anyone.

He was in one of Justin's hide-outs, an old theatre with strip shows in the other auditoriums. Mr. Thomas was leaning under the torn screen, tatters of it hanging down like curtains. He watched Jason pace up and down the aisles with small amusement.

"Nervous?"

"No."

"We're all nervous when we first meet _him_. But only the sinners have cause to fear."

Jason sprawled across a row of seats in a determined snit. "I ain't never been a saint."

"But you desire redemption. Your earthly transgressions are forgiven. You have nothing to fear so long as you are a part of my flock. And don't be nervous either. The Batman is just a man. It's the mission that's holy."

"Well-spoken," came a voice from the burnt-out crater of the projection booth, victim of a bygone insurance scam. Jason had heard the voice in his nightmares. It was the voice of the avenger, the stalker, the night. The voice that had taken…

Jason was glad Mr. Thomas had never asked if this was his first time meeting the Dark Knight.

Mr. Thomas stepped forward, putting his hands on Jason's shoulders like a proud parent. "This young man has some information for you. His name is—"

"_Jason Todd_."

Jason felt like not only had someone walked over his grave, but that a marching band had followed him. The Batman knew his name! That could not be good.

"Your social worker is worried about you."

The only thing Jason's social worker had ever done for him was to take a cut of Jason's profits in exchange for minding his own damn business. When Jason'd stopped paying, Mr. Thomas had stepped in to settle things. It involved three Wonder Boys and sports equipment.

Mr. Thomas's fingers dug possessively into Jason's shoulders. "Jason is under my care. He's well-looked after."

"See that he is. You have information for me?"

Mr. Thomas urged Jason forward. "Go on, boy. Tell him what you told me."

Jason felt the Batman lower his omniscient stare onto him, like a scientist looking at bacteria under a microscope.

Mr. Thomas had given them stills from the Joker's attacks on Good Morning Gotham, digitally enhanced and modified to give him a Caucasian skin tone. Aside from the smile, Joker could've passed for any old schlub off the streets. The smile… and the eyes.

Since early that morning, Jay and the rest of the Crime Alley Irregulars had been showing that picture to anyone with eyeballs. But Jason had been the one who'd gone to the underworld dives, the places where you bet on ponies or picked up some cheap companionship or just bought something a lot harder than booze.

And while Jason was speechless, Mr. Thomas was prodding him almost hard enough to hurt. Then Batman did a strange thing. He knelt down to eyelevel with Jason, seemingly to leave the shadows up there in the air. Jason could see his mask exposed to the life, his eyes no longer cruel slits but deeply human green. They blinked beneath the deep-set eyeholes. Weirdly, Jason wasn't afraid.

"One of the dancers at the Pussycat Club recognized him. Said his name was Jack. Quiet guy, kept to himself… just your average schmoe."

"And just how did you get into the Pussycat Club?"

Jason was feeling braver by the minute. He grinned as cocky as he felt, which was a lot. "I have my ways."

"Did this dancer know anything else?"

"She said he was 'melancholy'. Whuzzat mean?"

"Quiet desperation."

"I suppose you don't go to a place like the Pussycat Club when you're happy," Mr. Thomas said, intruding on what had been a private conversation.

Batman shot him a look, then returned to his appraisal of Jason. "What was the dancer's name?"

"Kyle. Selina Kyle."


	15. The Battle of Gotham Park

**5:00 PM**

At the top of Mount Everest, the air was so thin that man couldn't breathe without oxygen tanks. They were fragile. Superman had been there numerous times, it and so many mountains like it, to rescue stranded climbers or dig through the aftermath of an avalanche. But he rarely got the chance to just sit atop the peak and listen.

This was not one of those occasions.

Clark had been jumping from mountaintop to mountaintop, straining his ears to detect Lex's heartbeat. It was a sucker's game. Only minutes would pass before he detected the two little words that were both the core of his being and the walls of his existence. He hated them. He lived for them.

"Help, Superman!"

No luck. As Superman flew to the rescue, he considered the possibilities. The simplest explanation was that Lex's heart had simply stopped beating. It was possible. Humans were so fragile. They could die getting out of a bathtub, crossing the street… of a heart attack…

No! Lex couldn't be dead. Not before…

"Superman, help!"

He sighed and poured on the speed, careful not to kick up shockwaves in his haste. Whatever Luthor had planned, he'd stop it. And maybe this time it would get through that thick, hairless skull of his…

**5:50 PM - Sunset**

Not a moment to spare.

That's how close it had been. Bruce had spent the day in something like prayer, if he believed in anything, preparing for the ordeal to come. The Joker had something planned and megalomaniacs tended to escalate in leaps and bounds. Whatever was coming for Earle, it would be big.

He suited up early, not even waiting for the sun to descend below the horizon to begin. Alfred watched him, obligingly stuffing the old clothes into a hamper. Batman emerged from the costume vault, slowly cracking the kinks of Bruce Wayne's repression from his neck.

"Is it any use asking what marvelous shade of bruise you'll be returning with tonight, sir, so that I might plan your wardrobe accordingly?"

Bruce took his cowl off. "Plan something that can be accessorized with a plaster cast." He walked past the Tumbler to the black Lincoln Continental he used for undercover work. Looking at it, one would never guess that the shell was reinforced and the interior packed with weaponry. Alfred fetched him the keys. "I've had my men hitting the streets for information all day. Minus the time to summarize their findings, that's six hours to find out what the Joker has planned for Earle and stop it."

"Whatever he has planned, I doubt it could happen to a nicer fellow."

Batman glared at the butler.

"Merely suggesting that this Joker might have some sort of vigilante agenda as well."

"No. You didn't get as close to him as I did. He doesn't care about anything, even himself."

Alfred nodded. "He just wants to watch the world burn."

"Exactly." Batman stepped into the Lincoln. "Don't wait up."

"Master Wayne, I worry sometimes…"

"It'll have to wait. And don't worry. I can handle him. The rational mind always trumps insanity."

He took off with a squeal of tires, down into the roadway that was patched into Gotham's sewer systems. There, he'd emerge somewhere in the city, ready to go about his work. Alfred sighed and shuffled about his work. He'd do the laundry, lay out the medical kits for Master Wayne's return, and keep the ghastly Bluetooth device that had been issued to him tuned to the Batman's channel. Aside from that, all he could do was wait.

With a flush of unexpected rage, Alfred scattered a collection of cowls from the master's workbench and crushed them underfoot like eggshells. Defective ones that Master Wayne had been experimenting with, stenciling on, trying to make them even more fearsome. That cracked most satisfyingly.

Alfred took a deep breath, both satisfied and ashamed. Still, at least now he had something to clean. He went to get a broom and dustpan.

How to tell Bruce that sometimes he worried "the Batman" would gladly see the world burn, so long as he could pick which parts of it went up first?

**6:10 PM**

Harvey Dent had never actually seen the Batsignal light up. Oh, sure, he'd seen it a moment after the fact, the bright-yet-darkness lit up against a cloud, but he'd never seen the actual moment of illumination. Gordon pulled the switch. It was both like a regular spotlight, and not at all like a regular spotlight. A spear of light shot out, hit the heavens. It was faintly translucent in the dying light of the sun, like a ghost of its usual presence. Harvey had to shield his eyes from the intense light.

"How long do we have to wait?"

"Not long, I imagine," Gordon said as he lit his pipe.

"How do we know he's not out of town or something?"

"Because he's always here. When we need him."

"And do we need him? Really?"

Gordon took a long drag on his pipe, the embers flaring brightly, their reflections in his square-framed glasses leaving his eyes a mystery. "Yes."

"I wish I had your confidence."

"No. You don't."

The spotlight blared on, with a kind of hum that Gordon seemed to find comforting. Harvey just thought it was annoying. He tugged up the collar of his coat, wishing he'd taken Gilda's advice and worn a cap. Even in a hospital bed, she was looking out for him. At the thought of her, he pulled a flask from his coat pocket and took a pull from it. Gordon snorted.

"What? I need to cool my nerves."

"Just be sure they're not too cool."

Harvey wiped his nose with the back of his hand. If he stood out here much longer, he'd be catching cold. "I think you're drink too if you had a more realistic assessment of the man. He's not a pet or a genie. He's a very disturbed individual. What if the voices in his head decide tonight's the night to get rid of a DA?"

"As scary as it may seem, Batman seems like the sanest man I know at times."

"You're right. That is scary."

"Bruce boozes away his potential, locked up in that manor of his." Harvey started to protest before Gordon pointed at him. "You think you can save Gotham by the book, but when it comes to Gotham there isn't even _a_ book, and me… me, I volunteered for this job. What does that tell you? In a place like this, maybe dressing up like a bat is the smart thing."

"Should I recommend you a tailor who specializes in tights?"

"Me? No. Too old. Besides, Sarah would never let me hear the end of it. I work late enough as it is."

Harvey was getting more anxious, despite how he tried not to show it. The Batman only went after bad guys and he wasn't a bad guy. Just… weak. Sometimes. Not even that often. The man he'd shot deserved to die. And Batman was no specter to look inside a man's heart and see its color. He wouldn't know how much Harvey had enjoyed it. Justice, instant and incontestable. No legal loopholes, no hung juries, just… what? No, that wasn't him thinking that, that was some random snippet of a bad TV drama whispering in his ear, running through his head, the real world didn't work like that.

"If he keeps us waiting much longer, he'll come here to find an ass-kicking waiting for him."

"He might need one at that," Gordon laughed. "But who's gonna give it to him? You?"

"Army training, you know. Never really goes away. If he were here, right now… Lennox Lewis left, Oscar De La Hoya right… the Bat goes down for the…"

"Boo," said Batman.

Gordon tried very hard not to laugh at the face Harvey made. It wasn't easy.

"If this is about the Joker, I'm already on it." Batman spoke with no further preliminaries, ignoring Dent pulling his wits back together as he plunged into business.

"Then maybe you'd appreciate some help," Gordon said. He held out a folder, which the Batman took but did not look at. "The weapons the Joker's men were using were state of the art. Ballistics show that the ammo was top-notch as well. The men were also experienced. Used to be heavy hitters in the Falcone family, back before Carmine went whacko. This Joker has resources."

"Or he has a sponsor. Those guns and men would run into the hundreds of thousands of dollars. And professional mercenaries don't do pro bono work. An insane rampage would be the perfect cover for a murder. Find who benefits from Earle's death, we could just find the man behind the man."

"What about Earle?" Harvey piped up. "Gordon's got him in protective custody, but they're not…"

"Like me?" Batman made a sound deep in his throat. "I'll be there to protect Earle tonight. But finding the Joker before he makes his move would be our best strategy. That's the angle I'll pursue. You concentrate on keeping Earle safe. It's important to remember that no matter how far-removed from societal norms the Joker is, in the end he's just a man."

"So were you," Gordon said.

"Are," Batman said. "I'll be in touch."

And without even looking, he stepped backward off the rooftop and disappeared into the night.

"Does he do that a lot?" Harvey asked.

"Usually he waits until I'm looking in the wrong direction."

"What is he, eight?"

"Sometimes I think he's closer to eight hundred. Come on, I'll buy you a coffee. Your hands are shaking."

"Oh?" Harvey stuffed them in his pockets. "Yeah, you go on ahead. I think I'll stay out here a while. It really is a beautiful night, you know."

Gordon shut off the Batsignal. "Suit yourself. But don't stay out here too long. Can't do Gotham any good frozen."

Harvey stared at the night sky. A hunter's moon had risen early, like God had flipped a great silver coin and left it stuck in the darkness. What was it his father had always said? God flipped the moon to decide whether to make the world and it landed dark side up… so He did. Something like that. Cynical, he would've said. But then, not twenty-four hours ago he'd been assaulted by a psychotic clown and the Three Stooges. Maybe Batman was right. The world only made sense when you _made it_ make sense.

He pulled Bruce's coin from his pocket. His jacket pocket, not his pants pocket. In his pants pocket, it would be just another coin. But the silver dollar was special, somehow. He danced it over his knuckles like a knife, accidentally fumbling it on his pinky. Damn thing never had worked right since his father broke it. The coin landed on the parapet, heads up. Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

Harvey had heard a story in college. About how Roosevelt had known that Pearl Harbor would be bombed, and let it happen so that he'd have an excuse to enter America into the world. To have the strength, the conviction, the ruthlessness to do such a thing… If that were true, did it make him a hero or a monster? Or both? Suddenly the night seemed a little colder.

Harvey snatched up the coin and went back inside. Caught the elevator down. There was no one else in it, which suited him just fine. He felt like being alone. He rubbed his hands together, pleased with the warm friction. Then the elevator jerked to a stop.

Harvey reached for the emergency phone.

"Don't," came a familiar voice. It was above him.

The lights dimmed.

Harvey looked up. The access panel into the elevator shaft had opened and he had an impression… no more than an impression… of eyes and a mouth set in something that would've been a scowl if it weren't so carefully neutral.

"We need to talk," Batman said.

"I don't think we have much to say to each other. Your anonymity means you answer only to yourself. And I can't trust someone like that. It's fascist. It's wrong."

"It's what's necessary."

"So you're a necessary evil."

The hovering lips seemed to grin wolfishly. "Perhaps. I don't think of myself that way."

"I'm glad I'm amusing you."

"Put your personal feelings aside. Think about the greater good. We'd make more of an impact on Gotham if we worked together instead of at cross-purposes. We have the same goal, DA Dent, we just go about it differently. Two sides of the same coin."

Harvey thought it over. Despite the tiny voice in his head that was telling him that the man he was speaking to was making a mockery of justice, of his convictions, of _Gotham_, it made sense. Too much sense, really.

"Do you know how many of the criminals you capture go free because of insufficient evidence?"

"Yes," Batman said gravely.

"Good. Because here's how it's going to work. Before you drop through a skylight on some mob boss, you call me and tell me what you have on him. If it's enough, then bring him in."

"And if not?"

"Then you can either wait until _we_ have enough to go on or you can bust in there and get your rocks off. So what interests me is whether you're doing this just for the… fun of it, or if you really want to see a change?"

The Batman considered it. Harvey at first thought he had pressed too far, asked Batman to give up too much of his precious independence. Harvey had known men like that during the war, loose cannons who hated to be reliant on anyone else… but after a moment, Batman nodded.

"Let me make one thing clear," Harvey pressed. "Just because we want to bring the Joker… we can't break the rules. They'll bend, but if we break them, we're no better than him. Promise me we'll stay pure."

"I wouldn't have it any other way." Batman stood. "I'll be in touch."

Harvey reached into his pocket for a business card. "Wait, take my phone number…"

"I already have it."

The elevator rumbled back into motion, jolting Harvey, and when he looked back up the access panel was being replaced.

"Good luck," Harvey said as the lights flickered back on.

**6:20 PM**

John Corben was a humanist. He didn't believe in supreme beings, whether they wore blue tights or not, but he did believe in humanity's potential. And especially his own. It was easy to believe in. As a child, he'd been so much craftier than his parents and teachers, able to get away with anything so long as he applied himself. He'd gotten straight As in school and stolen anything he could get his hands on. He owed more to cheating than to intellect, but that was an education as well.

He'd graduated from college a solid B student (not wanting to draw too much attention to himself). From there he'd gone into the military, the jumping-on point for politics or a high rank or maybe just a juicy job in the private sector. He'd grasped the game immediately, played it expertly, rose to the rank of colonel. That was when he'd met Lex Luthor.

Apparently, Corben had made mistakes in his raise to power. And Luthor had proof. Extensive proof. All the way back to the sick notes he'd forged his mother's signature on.

Despite the blackmail, Corben had to admire Luthor. He was a smooth operator. Lost everything, then got right back on the horse. Luthor didn't want money, he wanted nukes. Instructions on how to reprogram them, the routes they'd take when they were shipped. For that information, he wouldn't just keep Corben's secret, he'd cut him in on the profits. That was the kind of boss Corben could appreciate. Even when the plan went south (fucking Superman), Corben stayed loyal. The brass didn't have enough to execute him, but his career in the military was over. When Lex offered him a place in his gang, Corben resigned his commission on the spot.

Since then, Lex had risen far and Corben had been with him every step of the way. Eventually, Lex had entrusted him with the position of head of security at Lexcorp. In Lex's private army, Corben was the general. The thuggery remained the same, though. Lex hired them out for odd jobs, "walking around money" as Lex called it, but usually it was to advance Lex's plans in some small way.

This one was about Gotham. Today's employer (not boss, Luthor was the boss) was William Earle. He'd been CEO of Wayne Enterprises before being ousted by the Wayne brat himself. Earle had landed on his feet, though. Since Batman had begun his crusade, crime and corruption in Gotham had been uprooted. Corben doubted it was as widespread as the Bat's supports made it out to be, but people felt safer. Investors felt safer. So Earle brought land like East End and the Narrows dirt-cheap, gentrified it, and sold it before the sheen wore off.

The only problem was the current residents. Intimidation was cheaper than buy-outs, and backroom doors were cheaper still. So today's assignment in Gotham Park would be good and legal, thanks to hizzoner the Mayor. Nice change of pace.

"You sure you want to go through with this, Mr. Earle? What with the clown and all…"

"The police will take care of that freak, and if they don't, the Batman's welcome to him," Earle said with Zen calm. He must've had the lowest blood pressure of any executive in the Fortune 500. "We go ahead as planned."

Corben nodded. They were meeting in Earle's office, a cheerily-lit place with a spectacular view of the city. It was an okay change-of-pace from the usual back of the barroom or secluded nightspot, but Corben preferred the ambiance of those places. At least they felt lived in. This office was as antiseptic as an operating room.

A secretary brought Earle some coffee, and even she seemed sterile, as sexless and emotionless as a robot. Earle sipped his coffee, complaining of the taste the moment it'd gone down his throat, while Corben watched with his hands on his knees. He didn't know why a Gotham real estate scam tickled the boss's fancy so much, especially with _this_ guy, but he knew how to follow orders. Anyone still in Gotham Park at nine o'clock would wish they had left for a safer environment… like a war zone.

**7:00 PM**

One of the benefits of having a photographic memory and a cop father was that he was liable to spill about whatever homemade weapons he'd come across in the line of duty. And Barbara was liable to remember. She got a number of the simpler weapons started, knowing there would be no time to test them. Chemistry projects of every sort bubbled on her stove. Some of them she stored in vials, others in syringes.

Her high-heeled boots she replaced with hiking boots. Everything else stayed.

"I'm going to Dinah's house to study, Mom!" Barbara shouted down the stairs, her costume and new arsenal in her backpack. "Don't wait up."

**9:00 PM**

_I must look like a flasher,_ Barbara thought. She was wearing a trenchcoat over her costume and had a fedora pulled low to conceal her mask. Luckily, her compatriots weren't the height of fashion either. The Parkers' clothes were threadbare at best while the Wonder Boys wore outlandish urban combat gear. They might've been intimidating, if the situation was a game of paintball. But compared to the real deal, Team Luthor in gleaming black armor with taser-tipped shockstaffs and clear plastic riot shields at the ready, they just looked like kids playing dress-up.

_Course, who am I to talk?_

One of the stormtroopers climbed atop a tank-like armored car and raised his helmet's black visor. He had a narrow face, with a blond crewcut and dull gray eyes. Barbara didn't trust the way his lips curled with superiority. He raised a megaphone to his razor-slit of a mouth.

"This is John Corben of Team Luthor Security. We have been authorized by law to clear this property of all unauthorized personnel. If you do not disperse, we will use force to compel you."

He lowered the megaphone and waited. The crowd didn't budge. Another moment passed. Then a tomato crashed against his face. Barbara whirled to see a dark-haired kid, a few years younger than her, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Corben made a mostly futile attempt to wipe his face off with a leather-gloved hand. Then he lowered his visor. "Depopulate the park."

The stormtroopers came forward, their shields a rigid line like an ancient Spartan phalanx. An elderly bum, tattered army jacket pulled shut against the cold, took a knee-wobbling step against the tide. "This is our h—"

The nearest stormtrooper rattled his skull with a swing of the nightstick. Now rocks and bottles were thrown into the invaders' ranks, all bouncing off or shattering against their shields.

Barbara grabbed a flask and a vial from her ammo belt. She popped the cork out of the vial and poured its contents into the flask. It was already hissing when she rolled it past the soldiers' jackboots. She backed up a safe distance. _One one-thousand, two one-thousand…_

The flask shattered with a loud pop, spewing out clouds of noxious gas. A chunk of the Team Luthor line faltered; hacking, sputtering, sometimes vomiting. _Life lesson: Don't forcibly relocate people on a full stomach._ Team Luthor's line was holding, but weakened.

Batgirl shucked off her coat and whipped off her hat, feeling like a beautiful butterfly emerging from its cocoon (to steal some poor preteen's internet poetry). "Everyone, follow me!" she shouted despite her suddenly dry throat.

She ran headlong in the middle of the faltering line, ramming a shield with her shoulder. The soldier she'd hit jabbed at her with his taser-speared shockstaff, but she was too close to be touched. As she strained to push him back, two men dashed in alongside her. Their added effort overwhelmed the soldier, broke through the line. The other protestors streamed in behind her.

Team Luthor lost all cohesion as their orderly rout turned into a barroom brawl. Batgirl scooped up a shockstaff and went to work. She put the stormtroopers down with bo-staff martial arts moves, using their clunky armor against them, and kept them down with shocks to the unprotected area between the armor and the helmet.

A soldier swung a nightstick at her; she ducked up it and jammed the shockstaff up into his chin. Lightning flashed behind his visor. Another stormtrooper tied to ward her off with his shield until she kicked it up and swept his legs out from under him. _Talk about your teenage rebellion_.

She felt a presence at her back and spun, shockstaff extended for a home run, only to hear it _thwack_ solidly against another staff. She looked up past the block to see Corben's maleficent expression behind his tinted visor. He spun his shockstaff in a circle, throwing hers up and clear, before moving in for the kill.

Batgirl threw herself backwards, landed on her back, saw the cackling taser drill into the air above her. With a kick, she batted it aside. Spun to her feet, helping herself along by caning the butt of her shockstaff against the ground. Corben met her with a stiff forearm against her collarbone. She rocked back on her heels, took a step backward, then swung over the top. Corben caught it with his staff, held bridge-like between two hands, and kicked at her. She deflected it with a quick kick of her own, stubbing her toe on his thick shin guard.

A wonder boy and a stormtrooper, locked in a grapple, sailed between her and Corben. Like a veil had been lifted, Batgirl saw and heard the violence all around her. From the ground, she couldn't really tell who was winning. There were stormtroopers who had fallen and were being kicked around by two or three protestors, and there were protestors who were seizuring where they'd been shocked, rattling like premature corpses. The combatants traded clumsy, flailing blows and eventually one would fall, to cover his head and pull his legs in over his stomach in the hopes that his enemy would move on to another fight. Batgirl saw a dozen little wars she could intercede in, but Corben reminded her of his presence with an attack. She parried it.

She was really too excited for doubt. She swung back for a hearty body blow, which he took without flinching. Then he trapped her staff behind his arm and body. Barbara suddenly had plenty of time for doubt.

Corben drove the shockstaff's tip between her breasts. Her spine arched, distorted by the electricity shooting up and down it. Her fingers death-gripped her staff so hard she thought she might crack it, then went loose as melted ice cream. Batgirl fell, wishing she were dead.

Corben twisted her shockstaff into his grip and then held both on her. "I hate capes," he sneered. "Always thinking you're better than regular people."

_I am regular people_ Barbara thought, before Corben's two shockstaffs made thought impossible. Around them, the riot was breaking up. The armored cars' pressure cannons were scattering the protestors like leaves. The stormtroopers waded in, shockstaffs flaring with the sharp noise and faint light of electrical discharge. Their victims foamed at the mouth, twitched like bugs under insect repellent. Corben knelt down, his knee across Batgirl's throat.

Mockingly tender, he ran a finger over her left horn. "Let's see that pretty face, red." He was just tugging on her mask when a dark-jacketed little ball of fury landed on his shoulders, an arm clasping around his neck.

"**Jason Todd, motherfucker!**"

Jason was hanging from Corben's neck, wiry legs scraping at Corben's sides. Corben dropped one of the shockstaffs and reached behind his back to grab Jason by an arm and fling him bodily to the ground.

"Oof!" came the sound Jason made as all the air fled his lungs. He tried to get up but a kick to his ribs flipped him over onto his back. He rolled against Batgirl, gagging. Corben held the shockstaff close enough to his face for Jason to feel tingling.

"I wonder if you could make it as a circuit-breaker for Batgirl here."

"That's Batwoman, asshole," Barbara gritted out. Corben stomped on her stomach. Then he smiled as he staked the shockstaff toward Jason's face.

It stopped, enclosed in a large fist. Jason could see the tip's electric-blue glow through the man's bare knuckles. His wide eyes followed the hand to its wrist, then up a blue-clad arm rippling with muscle to a shoulder from which a blood-red cape flapped.

Superman wagged the forefinger of his other hand at Corben. Then he shoved the shockstaff backward into Corben's gut.

* * *

As the man doubled over, Kal-El took stock of the situation at superspeed. He'd arrived so fast, few had even noticed him. He'd have to change that.

A patch of stubborn resistance had formed with its back to a statue of Civil War colonel Timothy Wayne. An armored car was aiming its pressure cannon at them. Superman peeked inside with his X-ray vision. The gunner was pulling the trigger. Superman was leaping into action even before a burst of solidified air had left its turret.

The pulse hit his chest and crashed to a stop like a spitball against Kevlar. _My turn_, Superman thought. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs to capacity. The armored car's crew watched his chest swell. Then they scattered out of the vehicle. Superman waited until the last of them had cleared, then blew. The armored car was picked up by his superbreath and carried like it was nothing more than a plastic bag. He let it roll to a stop just before the treeline.

Team Luthor realized Superman was in their midst. They backed up, forming a Superman-centered clearing among the army of stormtroopers and their downed, moaning enemies.

Corben, still holding his stomach, pushed past the surrounding men. "You've got no right to interfere, Superman. This is legal."

Superman looked at a woman lying in a puddle of her own blood. A quick X-ray revealed no lasting damage… physical, at least. "If that's the law, then the law is going to change."

"And since when does an alien get to make the law?"

"Since now."

Corben and ten other stormtroopers stabbed their shockstaffs into Superman's board chest. He winced a little as they shorted out, detonating in showers of sparks. The stormtroopers dropped their smoking weapons. Superman shrugged slightly, as if to say _well, what'd you expect?_

"Hey, you in the armored cars!" Superman shouted with earth-rumbling force. "Get out of your vehicles _now!_"

The crews didn't have to be told twice. Superman studiously ignored the stormtroopers wailing on him with nightsticks and X-rayed the armored cars, finding their gas tanks. Then he hit them with concentrated beams of heatvision. The armored cars exploded one by one, eaten from the inside out by flames, their armor plating not quite holding inside spilled entrails of dark smoke.

Corben was still feverishly cracking his nightstick against Superman when it snapped. That caught the Kryptonian's attention. He picked Corben up by the throat and set him down in the nearby fountain, up to his shins in water. Then he exhaled his arctic breath on the water. It froze solid.

"Stay in there and cool down a while," Superman told him. "Tell Luthor if he doesn't leave the Park alone, he can expect more write-offs like this one. And tell him that I'm looking for him." He turned his attention to the rest of the stormtroopers, shuffling around like kids called upon to stay after school. "As for you, if you don't want to stay and help, I'd suggest you leave."

Astonishingly, a few did stay and help with rudimentary first aid. It brought a smile to Superman's face, before the ramifications of his actions had hit home. Shoulders slumped, he sucked it what little remained of the gas. He'd never disobeyed the law. Not like this. But then, things had never been so bad. If someone like Luthor could amass so much power, maybe it was time for a change. More like Krypton, as Kara suggested. Yet Krypton had become stagnant, vulnerable to the chaos that had eventually destroyed it.

He had no answers, Superman realized, watching the anarchy gradually resolve itself. Police sirens in the distance said that Gordon and his men were on their way. They could be trusted, according to Bruce.

Behind him, Corben jerked and screamed. The young boy he'd been threatening was returning the favor with a shockstaff. The girl in the bat-costume was gone. Superman gently took the shockstaff from the boy, Jason something or other from his battle cry earlier.

"Isn't it a school night?"


	16. The Joker's Midnight Murder

**9:30 PM**

One of the nice things about Wayne Manor was that there was no one around for miles. Still, Superman took precautions. You never knew when there might be a satellite or automated camera around. He zipped into the estate from above, coming down in a greenhouse, where he swiftly changed into his Clark Kent outfit. Glasses in place, hair neatly combed… he took a moment to finagle his spitcurl back into position… he stepped out of the greenhouse and neatly jogged to the front door. There, he simply knocked on the door.

If the butler was surprised to find someone at the front door instead of using the intercom system at the gate, he didn't show it. All Clark caught were waves of slightly offended propriety.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"Yes… Alfred, isn't it?" The butler nodded. "I'd like to talk to Bruce."

"Master Wayne isn't…"

"I know, I know, not available. Could you just tell him I came by? I think he'll want to see me."

Alfred gave him a sympathetic nod. "Wait here, guv'nor. I'll see if I can dig him up."

Clark stuck his hands in his pockets and looked around for a porch to sit on. He found none, even with X-ray vision. Shame to have a front yard this big and no porch. All he could find were some marble benches that looked designed more to be critiqued than to be sat on. Clark shook his head. City folk.

Alfred stuck his head out the door. "You're right, he _would_ like to see you. The master's downstairs, I'll show you the way."

Clark pushed his glasses up his nose. "I think I can find my own way."

"Trust me, it's best if I show you."

* * *

Clark supposed his photosynthetic cells always registered a note of protest when he was out of sunlight, which was why he liked to be on the other side of the world when it was night, but only in the Batcave did he get an actual physical chill. It wasn't just the absence of sunlight, it was the preclusion of the _possibility_ of sunlight.

Bruce was sitting at the computer, modifying a 3D model of (Clark squinted) was that _himself?_ The billionaire was wrapped in the suit like a child in a security blanket, which was an odd thing for Clark's reporter mind to jump to, and the version on the large screen was wearing a cheap suit.

"Bruce."

Bruce's back was turned. "Don't _insult_ me, Kal-El."

A bit ruefully, Clark straightened from his slump, removed his glasses, and ran a hand through his neatly-parted hair. When he finished, he wasn't a mirror image for Superman… but he wasn't that far off, either.

"Is this about the Park?" Bruce asked. His voice was much deeper and more primal than his playboy falsetto. Clark supposed that was him returning the favor.

"Among other things." Clark sat down, though he knew Bruce hadn't offered yet. "I made a choice today. I'm not sure if it's the right one." Bruce said nothing. "I'm bringing Luthor down. For everyone's sake. This isn't some personal vendetta."

"Like mine, you mean?" Bruce punched a few keys and the Bruce on the screen grew a mustache. "It's no business of mine, your feud with Luthor. Just keep it out of Gotham."

Clark automatically gritted his teeth. "That's what I was doing in the Park."

Bruce spun around. "No, you were showing Luthor that Gotham matters to you. He won't care why, but he will burn it to the ground to spite you. We'd have been much better off if you hadn't shown your hand."

"People would've gotten hurt…"

"And you still haven't learned to do what's necessary," Bruce continued over Clark. "Gotham isn't Metropolis. You can't protect it the same way."

"I wasn't _just_ protecting the city."

Bruce reacted with sarcasm. "I'm touched." He turned back to the computer. "So you're bringing Luthor down. I suppose you'll want my help?"

"You could," Clark said. "But I won't ask you to. I'm not sure how far I can take this. I broke the law today. Even if it was a corrupt law… that's not something I'm used to doing."

"It gets easier, if that's what you're asking."

Clark almost gritted his teeth. "It's _not_. I'm asking where I should draw the line. There's a point where I go from helper to vigilante…"

"Or from hero to savior," Bruce needled.

"Okay, that? Not helping."

"I was just saying." With a mouse-click, the form on the screen sprouted a large scar.

"Is that a disguise?"

"Yes."

"Infiltrating the underworld?"

"Yes."

"Could be dangerous."

"Yes… _Alfred_."

Clark blinked. Then smiled. "Was that a joke?" Bruce didn't say anything, but his spine was stiff as a two-by-four. Why was it he always had to close up after moments of camaraderie? "The scar's a bit theatrical."

"Theatrical?"

"Well, if you _want_ to look like you're going to fight James Bond…"

Bruce shrunk the scar.

"Better."

And added some glasses.

"Hey!"

"If you're going to steal, steal from the best."

"Just don't start bumbling around like a klutz. That's my schtick."

"You're welcome to it." Bruce switched the glasses for a pair of shades. "If you're looking for my blessing to go after Luthor, all I can give you is this: Tread carefully. I may not like it, but we stand for something… bigger than ourselves. I'm the punishment for when people go astray. And you're the hope that keeps them on track. No man has the right to take away the hope you give people. Not even you."

"You think I shouldn't have left."

Bruce steepled his hands. "What do you think?"

Clark bit his lip, wishing he could tell him everything… Kara, how he wasn't _alone_ anymore, how it felt like he could breathe for the first time in years… but he kept it in. He just didn't know how Bruce would react. For now, it was safer keeping secrets.

"I met with your… sidekick. Batgirl."

"She's not associated with me."

"Where there's one, there could be others."

"I'm already looking into it. What are you so worried about?"

"I've caught enough kids who thought tying a red towel around their necks would let them fly. I don't want to do the same in Gotham."

Batman grinned humorlessly as he faced Clark. "Men can't fly. But it would be possible for someone to duplicate my actions. How else would Gotham have a protector after I died?"

"Or retired."

"_Died_," Bruce reiterated. He calmed, looked away. "Or maybe you'll just worried about more than one of me."

"What? People living up to their potential? Don't tell me you've signed up for Luthor's newsletter."

"No. I worry about more than one of me as well." Bruce shut down the screen. "I have to go. There's no time to set up an undercover identity by twelve o'clock and Earle takes priority."

"I could stick around, help…"

"No," Bruce said quickly. "No, you've done enough."

Clark looked down. "It's not a weakness to ask for help, Bruce."

"And it's not a sin to not need it."

Clark put his hand on Bruce's shoulder. "I need it."

Bruce sighed impatiently before brushing Clark's hand away. "Since I _trust_ you wouldn't come to me if it wasn't _important_…"

"Someone broke into the Fortress of Solitude. They stole the crystals."

"Someone?"

Clark's voice lowered. "Luthor."

"No, it's good that you don't make assumptions, Kal-El." He picked up a cowl from the table, tucked in under his arm as he began applying black facepaint under and around his eyes. "I'll look into that."

"Those crystals contain the sum total of Krypton's knowledge. If Luthor manages to translate them…"

"From a dead language last spoken in a distant galaxy?"

"Don't underestimate him. Just because he's sane doesn't mean he's not dangerous."

Batman put on his cowl, securing it to his suit with curt motions of his fingers. "As hard as it may be for you to believe, Kal-El, I have more pressing matters to attend to than cleaning up your messes."

Superman crossed his arms. "You keep calling me Kal-El. My name is Clark."

"And you keep calling me Bruce…"

**10:00 PM**

Commission Gordon stifled a yawn. Knowing his sleep cycle, he should've caught a catnip at the office, but he literally couldn't get his eyes closed before something new fell on his plate. Earle had finally accepted police protection, only to stay hunkered in his penthouse. They'd had to run the bomb squad over every inch of the hotel, incurring the wrath of the concierge while Earle's bodyguards rattled sabers. And just now Gordon's boys had been called to Gotham Park for a riot caused by Earle.

_Next time someone offers you a commissionship, Jim, tell them to go to hell._

And just like that, he was there. The room had just… stilled somehow.

"There are gaps in your security," Batman said. "Earle is vulnerable."

"That's to be expected," Gordon sighed. "This isn't a _safe house_ after all."

The Batman was intractable.

Without further grousing, Gordon held out the building blueprints. Batman pointed out the holes.

"My men will take care of it. Any idea what the Joker's planning? Another blitz like Wayne manor?"

Gordon thought he saw Batman wince. But that was impossible. "Joker styles himself a comedian. The key element of comedy is spontaneity. Whatever he does, it will depend on the element of surprise. I doubt he'll do the same joke twice."

"Unless he considers home invasion a running gag."

"In his warped mind, it just might be."

There was a silence, filled by Gordon cleaning his glasses and Batman remaining motionless, except perhaps for his ever-churning mind.

Gordon stared resolutely at his glasses, polished to perfection. "Is it just me, or is this guy not like the others?"

"He's a criminal. He'll be caught, he'll be punished, just like anyone else."

"But with criminals, even freaks, there's," Gordon sought the right word, "normalcy. Motive, MO… humanity. With him, there's just…"

"Humor. Life and death are jokes to him. That's why he'll lose. Because he doesn't care."

Gordon looked at Batman, surprised at the expression of hope. That night on the rooftop with Batman assuring him that Gotham could be brought back seemed like ages ago… and like yesterday. "That seems unusually sentimental for you."

"I had a chat with an old friend. He always has that effect on me."

"I won't get used to it, then."

**11:00 PM**

Charlie Sturgress had been driving the Metropolitan 5 for thirty years. He'd seen Gotham through a lot of shit, through route changes to get around the worse of gang territory, through that weird business with the fear toxin, through damn near everything.

The Metropolitan 5 was an old warhorse of a bus, probably as old as he was. He'd been with it since damn near the beginning of his career, and it'd never let him down. The brakes ran smooth, the AC worked good 'cept in the right dead of winter, and the seats were mostly comfortable. He took care at the end of each night to patch 'em up. Other busses might have shit for seating, but not his. The Metropolitan 5 was his baby. It took care of him, he took care of it.

Stop on Mulberry Street. He didn't know why he made this stop anymore; he'd told his supervisors that no one got on at this stop. Not since they'd torn down or condemned all the apartment buildings. It was out of the way and Charlie didn't like to stop the bus in East End. Most of the gangs left the busmen alone as a common courtesy, but the skinheads took exception to his coloring and that only led to trouble.

They got on the bus and caused trouble, and if he shut the door in the face, not only would they chase him down the block throwing shit, but his supervisor would chew him up. His white supervisor, who'd never driven a bus, just transferred in from some slick ad agency and assumed he could maximize revenue while slashing costs. Damn fool knew next to nothing about running busses, but things mostly ran themselves, so there wasn't much he could do to screw things around. Just make him stop on Mulberry Street.

Charlie was lucky tonight, though. Nobody there, 'cept one guy in a purple overcoat. Maybe a pimp. The wide-brimmed purple hat looked to confirm that. Well, better a pimp than a skinhead. The Metropolitan 5 rattled to a stop and Charlie opened the door.

The man in purple stepped up the stairs, hopefully finding them nice and dry. He carried a fat black guitar case with him, which he stashed against the wheel well. Then he stopped in front of the money collector like it was a personal affront to him. "What is this?"

"It takes your money."

The man pulled out his pockets. "Don't like the sound of that. How much for a bus side, no in-flight movie and only a vague smell of urine?"

"Takes one-fifty to ride."

"All I have is a .45."

That's when Charlie noticed the gun in the man's hand. Then he noticed the man's face.

"Oh God! You're… you're…"

"I'm… I'm… the Joker!" He flourished his hat at Charlie, but his gun remained horribly still on Charlie's head. "Back of the bus, boy. We've got people to kill, a place to be! Don't worry, it's north of the Mason-Dixie Line."

Charlie forced himself slowly down the aisle. He wanted to run. The emergency exit was right there… but there was a big man in leather leaning against it. As Charlie watched, the big man smeared greasepaint and lipstick over his face. Making a clown out of himself.

The rest of the passengers, ten people by Charlie' s count, crowded the back too with slowly-lessening confusion and fast-mounting tension. The Joker crooked a finger to the bus stop and some men stepped out of the shadows. Six in total, dressed in dark clothes with backpacks and ski masks… and clown masks on over their balaclavas. The clown masks were secured by string in the back. There were bulges in their jackets that could only be guns.

Charlie's whole body clenched. He quavered until the big man shoved him down into a seat. There was a gun in his hand too, a .38 that looked comically undersized in his huge meaty fist.

The Joker stayed dead-center in the aisle as his men took their seats, one of them taking the wheel. "Ladies and germs, buckle your seatbelts and keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times. Passengers with heart murmurs and pregnant women probably won't make it through the night, but hey, every little bit keeps Social Security from going bankrupt that much longer. The weather is slightly cloudy with a high chance of lead rain and we anticipate an arrival in hell in no less than one hour. Thank you for riding the Joker Express, hope you enjoy the ride!"

**11:30 PM**

The little old lady next to Charlie was clutching her purse. Charlie was just hanging onto the seat in front of him, the tightness of his grip causing wads of insulation to bleed out from under a duct tape patch job.

The Joker sat down in front of him, backwards so he was facing Charlie. "Hello there."

Charlie became acutely aware of how close his hands were to the grinning maniac.

"Welcome to the show, thanks for joining us." He had a microphone in his hand and one of his thugs was recording them with a Handycam. "What's your name, sir?"

Joker shoved the microphone in his face. "Cah-charlie."

"Well, Cah-charlie, where ya from?"

"Gotham?"

"Home grown type, huh? I'm sure the city's proud to have produced such an epitome of bus-driving professionalism. Now, Cah-Charlie, what do you think happens to you when you die?"

The gun was still in the Joker's other hand. "Never put much thought into it," Charlie mumbled.

"No? Never thought about how you'd bleed? How your heart would pitter-pat to a stop like an engine running out of gas? Then, of course, your brainwaves would slooooooooowly dwindle to nothing. That usually takes a while, but less time if you're watching Fox. After that, they pump you full of embalming fluid, strip you naked, stick you in a suit with no back, and bury you in the ground. Sound like fun?"

"N-no."

"No? Some people have no sense of adventure. Hey, I know! Let's sing a driving song!" He popped up from his seat like a Whack-A-Mole. "Theeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round; the wheels on the bus go round and round…"

Joker shot Charlie in the head.

"He wasn't singing. If you don't sing, you might as well be… yeah." The Joker pointed his gun at the old lady next to Charlie's bleeding corpse. "Let's take it from the top, people."

They sang and sang and sang, until Joker got bored of singing and shot someone to shot him up. They pulled to a stop in a parking garage, where the Joker and his men got off, the big man staying on, and a new driver got on. He wore heavy Kevlar body armor and handed a suit of the same to the big man. The Kevlar was festooned with various whimsical touches to look like a clown suit. Joker pawed the new driver's hand in a staggering handshake.

"Drive around a while," he said, still shaking gallantly. "I'll call you in when I need you."

**11:40 PM**

The Joker's smart wingtips clopped up the stairs to the Gotham National Bank, which was just shutting down. The security guard, old and fat, had locked all but one of the doors, and only three customers remained in line at the sole open teller. The Joker strode in, casually pistol-whipping the guard to the side, and shot the teller through the head.

"Think they'll stop sending me credit card applications now?" he asked as his men filed in behind him, locking the door and dragging the guard out of sight. "Alright, good little citizens, calm down and welcome to the first truly interactive bank robbery! You're part of the action here in Joker's Wild Round-up! Watch in awe as my safecracker opens the vault! Thrill as the police slurp down coffee and donuts because no one's called them! Gasp as I execute one of you to prove I'm serious, in a very irreverent sort of way…" He swept his gun hand over the crowd, watching them cringe. "Wait, already did that. Check that off the list. Nineteen minutes and counting, boys!"

The Joker straightened his tie and checked his make-up in a compact. Satisfied with his appearance, he walked amongst the hostages, gun twitching by his side like a scorpion's tail. As nine of the men stole money from the drawers and worked at the vault, one held a Handycam on him. The cameraman held up three fingers, counted down, and pointed to Joker.

The clown smiled, a grisly sight that split his face like a scalpel, and wheeled his microphone to a woman like a weapon. "Hello there. Welcome to the show, thanks for joining us."

**11:55 PM**

Gordon paced the rooftop of Earle's hotel, the Gotham Hilton. He snuck another cigarette, though he'd been trying to quit, and put away his cell-phone. Somehow, he knew Batman was close by.

"That was Barbara. She's worried about me. Wants to know why I don't just call in Superman to fly Earle to the Fortress of Solitude?"

Batman, without leaving the shadows or even seeming to move, made his presence known. "I don't like the precedent it would set."

"Would you like it more if Earle were Mother Theresa?"

"Anything's possible. Take me to him."

"Who? Earle?" Gordon looked at the roof access door. "You don't want me to shut the lights off first? There are a lot of trigger-happy cops in there."

"I can handle cops."

"Right. Just let me know if you're going to jump through any windows. The concierge will have my head if I get glass on the carpet."

With Batman breathing down his neck, no matter how distant he kept, Gordon went back inside. He flicked his cigarette butt off the edge of the roof, watching how it only took a moment for it to shrink to just another ember in the bed of Gotham coals. Nice view.

He went down the stairs, his footfalls explosive in the enclosed space, Batman's so quiet that Gordon wondered if he was falling. But he didn't dare look back. He stepped out onto the floor of Earle's penthouse, letting the guards secure the door behind him. They started at the sight of Batman, who glided between them as silently as a Dickens specter. There were four more unnies walking the corridor between the roof access and the penthouse. Gordon had to gesture for some of them to leave their weapons in their holsters. If Batman noticed, and of course he noticed, he didn't care.

Gordon checked his watch before entering the penthouse. Two minutes to twelve. He stepped inside. The SWAT boys were still there, visors down and weapons hot, in a rough circle around Earle. They were in the center bedroom, no windows and with barricades erected in front of the air vents. Earle looked like he'd lost thirty pounds, his skin pale and clammy. He mopped at his sweaty brow with a monogrammed handkerchief.

"What's he doing in here?" Earle pointed at the Batman, his hand shaking. "I never said he could come in here! I said police officers, not some vigilante psychopath."

"You're not looking well, Earle. Have you been drinking?"

"Just a glass or two, to steady my nerves. Not that it's any of your business…"

"It's fine," Gordon said, "we had poison control run tests on it."

"I tell you, I want him out of here! How do we know that's even the real Batman? It could be the Joker in a disguise!"

Batman strode forward, ignoring the dozen submachine guns suddenly trained on him, and grabbed Earle's wrist. "Your pulse is racing." Touched his chest. "Heart, too."

"Of course it is! A maniac told me I was going to die in one minute and now another maniac is accosting me!"

Batman pulled up Earle's sleeve, noting the discoloration. "Any chest pains? Coughing?"

Earle laughed bitterly. "Coughing! Coughing!? HA!"

Batman's head swiveled, owl-like, to Gordon. "Find a doctor. Better yet, call in a Medivac copter."

"Medivac?" Earle laughed at the mere thought. "That's it, huh? I get in a copter and then you crash it in the middle of the Financial District? Or throw me into the blades _hahaha_ like meat in a grinder!?"

Earle shoved Batman back.

"Someone arrest that man! Did everyone just forget he's a criminal? A vigilante who… who…"

"Mr. Earle, you have to calm down. Keep your breathing steady and…"

Earle grabbed a gun from a nearby SWAT member. Pointed it squarely at Batman. "No, _you_ calm down!" He laughed. "Did you see me? Did you see me do that? Let's see the Joker get to me now." He mimed firing the SMG. "Ratatattat!"

His enthusiastic machine-gun noises became gales of laughter, so thick they knocked his glasses from the bridge of his nose. He bent double under the force of his laughing, righted himself with a look of confused terror upon his face, then crumpled to the floor with laughter. Every time his body snapped about to give them a look at his head, his face was splitting wider, eyes bulging, then a never-ending scream that pulled his terrified smile into a death-grin's rictus. He spasmed, gave a few feeble kicks, then died clutching the gun like a child would a teddy bear.

"Jesus Christ," Gordon said. "Get the paramedics in here, now! Blake, start CPR. Go!"

"It's too late," Batman said. He knelt down and jabbed a syringe into Earle's arm, taking a blood sample, then tucked the vial away into his utility belt. The needle he dumped in a waste bin. "The Joker's a showman. If he's not here personally, he'll be somewhere else reaping the attention."

Gordon switched his radio over to general dispatch. "Gloria, give me all major crimes within the last ten minutes. I want banks, museums, theatres, anything high-profile."

Batman walked out onto the balcony, heedless of any snipers, and looked out on the city. Not only leaving the flailing police response behind, but seeming to rise above it. His head turned from side to side, robotically, as if he could spot the Joker with the naked eye.

"Where are you?"

**11:59 PM**

The Joker checked his watch. It'd been a productive twenty minutes. He'd had a lot of fun.

"Okay, boys, work day's over." He clapped his hands together. "It's playtime."

The boys started tying the moneybags off, leaving behind the stacks of bills still inside the vault. One of the thugs grabbed a wad of bills and stuffed it into his coat.

"Hey, Mr. Joker, what say we have another five minutes? I got kids to put through college."

Joker strolled up to him, gently straightened his lapels, then slapped the taste from his mouth. "You want those kids to have a father, you'll wrap it up. The poison I slipped into the dear, departed Mr. Earle's coffee has sent him to corporate pig heaven." He scampered over to the teller's, vaulting the counter and landing in a puddle of the teller's blood. "We've set up the joke, now we give the punchline. While Gotham's Bovinest were watching Earle die, I was robbing… oooh, what does this button do?"

At the stroke of midnight, he pressed the silent alarm.

**12:00 PM**

"I've got something," Gordon said. "Robbery at Gotham National Bank. It's the Joker… oh my God, he has hostages."

"Not for long," Batman said.

He jumped the railing and flew down into the night, quickly losing himself in the smoke and fury of Gotham.


	17. Driven Crazy

**12:01 AM**

Batman felt the wind whip by him, trying to snatch his cape out of his electrified gloves and send him plummeting to his doom. Usually, he'd find the brief moment of flight a release, but not tonight. Now it felt as gloomy and heavy as the mask ever had.

Below him, the Batmobile's AI subroutines had taken over, matching his speed, weaving in and out of traffic to stay out of him. The cockpit opened and Batman could see the seat waiting for him. He touched down, quickly slipped into place, and pressed a button on his armrest console. Safety belts slashed out from the seat and wrapped around his chest, waist, and legs like the restraints in an electric chair.

The steering wheel thrummed once as it went active, now tuned into the steering system and offering resistance. No sooner had Batman taken hold of it then he stomped on the gas pedal, exceeding the AI's maximum safe speed. With the flick of a switch, the lights of the Batmobile blazed to life like the eyes of some monster riding out of the depths of hell.

* * *

Far behind him, Commissioner Gordon was shouting into his radio. "Clear a path between the Gotham Hilton and Gotham National Bank. Make no attempt to impede the Batman's progress, repeat, clear the streets!" He clicked his radio off, watching as the distant fireworks of police lights came on with the accompaniment of their klaxons. Clearing a path.

"Godspeed."

* * *

There was a line already open to the Batcave. "Master Bruce, I see you've taken control of the car. Is everything in order?"

"No. Patch in the feed from the bank security cameras."

"How do I… ah, yes, here it comes."

After a quick look at the radar to ascertain that the way was clear, Batman looked to the media read-out. It switched from the car's status screen to show a CCTV view of the bank. Hostages, still alive. Men with guns. And the Joker.

He waved toodle-oo to the camera as police lights flashed outside the bank. In black and white, they made it look as if the moon and the sun were chasing each other every few seconds.

* * *

The Joker watched, eyes slanting from one side to the other, as the police arrived on the scene. They parked their cars, got out and aimed handguns at the bank. They weren't as prompt as he would've expected. If he paid taxes, he would be chagrinned.

"The forces of order. What a bunch of nancy-boys. Dean, Jerry, grab the Brownies."

The "Brownies" were M1919 Brownings, light machine guns that took .30 cal .30-06 Springfield bullets. That was what airplanes shot.

"Why do I have to use the Brownie?" Dean asked.

"Because you go with Jerry. Laurel goes with Hardy, Cheech goes with Chong, and Pete goes with Dud!"

"Who're Pete and Dud?"

Joker threw his hat to the ground and stomped on it. "I knew it! I'm surrounded by assholes!" He pointed out at the police. "Start firing, assholes!"

Dean and Jerry, their arm-muscles near-bursting with the effort of carrying the heavy weapons, followed Joker to the door. ("I don't see why Tom can't do this," Dean whined.) The Joker pushed open the double doors, stepping out into the colored shadows of the police light. Laser targeting dots swirled over his chest like fireflies, but what Joker was far more concerned with was the news crews setting up far behind the action. They scurried to zoom in on him. He raised both arms high, basking in the glow of his adoring public.

"I am not a crook! I am an artist!" The engine's roar, like that of a charging beast, shot through the air. The Joker lowered his arms in presentation. "And this is my masterpiece!"

The Metropolitan 5 screeched through the intersection, pile-driving through the police cars that circled the bank and rumbling up the steps to crash through the bank's doors. It missed the Joker by inches, its side-mirror knocking his already-battered hat off. The Joker caught it behind his back, then threw it out like a Frisbee.

Jerry shot it down like a clay pigeon before he and Dean opened up on the cop cars, their bullets catching engines, popping tires, exploding gas tanks. The police ran for cover, firing behind them, usually cut down where they stood. The Joker ran purple-gloved fingers through his green hair, eyes closed as if he were listening to the hook of his favorite song.

"Mmmm. That's good crime."

The bus doors slid open, bits of shattered glass falling from them. Joker climbed onboard, his moneybag-toting henchmen coming in after him. Jerry and Dean were the last two onboard, their Brownings still trailing gunsmoke.

"Next stop, Batman." The clown's grin was cut off by the bus doors closing, their glass webbed with cracks.

* * *

Officer Montoya had already emptied her service revolver after the bus, managing to flatten one of the tires. The Metropolitan 5 slowed down maybe a fraction. Then she stopped thinking of catching the bad guys. Survival was more than enough to fill her plate. The crooks hadn't been good shots, but they'd fired enough bullets to make up for it. Gutshot and winged cops littered the street like they'd been discarded there.

She went to the closest one. Yeah, it would be Bullock. He was down with a bullet in his ample gut. She put pressure there, stemming the bleeding. The ambulances would come soon. They had to.

Renee heard the rev of an engine, growing louder and louder. The Joker, coming back for more? She looked up.

The Batmobile sped past her, stirring up the street in its wake like a tornado. As it dwindled into the distance, its jet engine fired. The red-hot flame carried it out of her sight.

Renee felt something akin to hope.

* * *

"The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round," the Joker sang merrily.

* * *

Crispus Allen swung his police car into a sliding turn, jerking to a rolling stop behind the hijacked bus. Ellen Yin, in the second police car, swerved to a stop behind him. Crispus gunned his engine and sped after the bus, knowing Ellen had his back.

He picked his radio from the dash. "This is Adam-4, in pursuit. Suspect is headed east on Thomas Wayne Drive."

* * *

"…round and round, round and round, round and round, round and round…"

* * *

Batman's eyes briefly flitted to the GPS screen as the computer automatically generated a route. It also generated probable escape routes for the Joker. The strongest possibility was that he would turn east on Belmont and make for the East End, where he could lose himself in the decay. The police would be cordoning off the area, but it wouldn't come to another slaughter. Batman would ram the bus head-on if it came to that.

* * *

"Round and round and round and round and…" The Joker checked his rear-view mirror, which instantly bombarded him with red and blue lights.

"Tailgaters!" he cried, agitated. "Cheech, take the wheel."

The Hispanic member of the gang irritatedly responded to his codename, taking the Joker's place in the driver's seat. The Joker merrily skipped down the aisle, past the cringing hostages, to grab the guitar case that'd been stowed by the emergency exit. He opened it up while the leather-clad captor opened the backdoor.

The rocket launcher was waiting for him, four rockets neatly fitted alongside it, with sidewalk chalk painting a goofy grin on the side of the nozzle. He picked it up and slammed the first rocket home.

"Let's see if this gets the Bat's attention."

* * *

"Damnit, dispatch, where's my air support? This maniac has hostages!" Crispus bellowed into his radio. Then he saw the emergency exit on the bus pop open. The Joker stood in the doorway, coat-tails billowing in the wind, some kind of tube on his shoulder… He raised it…

"Ellen, move!"

Too late. The launcher vomited flame, a brief flare of bright smoke that led into Ellen's police car. The hood shot up in the eruption, so far it smashed in the cab. And the entire front half of the police car simply ceased to exist. The remaining half, wreathed in flame, spun out; hitting the sidewalk in a storm of newspapers and snapped parking meters.

Crispus slammed on the brakes, was out of his car before he could even work the parking brake. He ran for the burning police car so fast that when the second rocket hit his own abandoned vehicle, he barely noticed the shrapnel lacerating his back.

The pain blacked him out, swallowed his vision. He stumbled, but the pain brought him back. The door to Ellen's car yawed open, fierce black smoke tumbling out. He waved it out of his face as he leaned in. Ellen was a bloody mess, burnt badly. Crispus sawed through her seatbelt with his pocket knife and scooped her up, carrying her out of the wreckage.

The Batmobile streaked by him, engines hot.

"Get that son of a bitch, Bats," Crispus whispered fiercely.

* * *

Patti Devine had taken an extra shift as helicopter pilot in Gotham's Rapid Response Task Force to take her mind off her marriage. Her husband, Jim Devine, was drinking more and more. She'd come home last night to find the kids up past their nine o'clock bedtime and her husband passed out on the couch. Luckily, all her children had been up to was watching Cartoon Network (Patti hadn't known there _were_ such violent cartoons at night).

None of that mattered while she was airborne. Getting Jim into rehab, finding a nanny to watch the kids, it all went away when the call came over the radio. She was fueled up, her rotors were slicing at full speed, and the skies were clear.

"This is Kitty-Hawk 3, responding to request for air support on TW Drive."

The helicopter tilted forward and, in its incredible speed, Patti found her calm.

* * *

The Joker was in a Zen state, the perfect storm of madness, sitting cross-legged in front of the emergency exit with the rocket launcher cradled in his arms. He rocked back and forth, watching the street fly away.

"What's taking him so long? Where is the Batman!?"

"Maybe he's busy?" one of his men suggested.

Joker sprang to his feet, as loopy as a jack-in-the-box. "Busy? With something else? Something more important than _me_!?" He pressed an outraged hand to his chest. "What kind of philistine would that make him? Surely he must know I'm not like the others! I'm no common criminal, no purse snatcher or mugger! I'm the Joker! The Clown Prince of Crime! The Ace of Knaves! The Caliph of Clowns! **Nobody's** more important than me!!!"

A spotlight shone down, catching him in its beam like a fly in amber. Joker quickly puffed his chest out for the imaginary audience, slicking his hair back with his free hand. High above, a police helicopter had finally arrived.

Joker held onto a support pole as the Metropolitan 5 drifted into a turn, the helicopter banking to keep up. With an even wider smile than usual, he reached for the third rocket.

* * *

"This is Kitty-Hawk 3, suspect is turning west on Belmont. He's headed into the financial district."

Batman quirked an eyebrow at that. The financial district was suicide. Sparsely populated this time of night, with plenty of police patrols thanks to the affluent "campaign contributors" who worked there. It was a death trap for criminals, a roach motel. And his plan to head the Joker off was useless.

Jerking the wheel, he threw the Batmobile into a 180 degree turn and sped down an alleyway that was such a tight fit, sparks flew off the sides of the car. Not his problem. He burst out onto a one-way street headed west, turned on a dime, and hit the afterburner. Nitrous oxide flooded the jet engine, which flared blue-hot. Batman was shoved back into his head as the world blurred around the edges.

* * *

The Joker carefully lined the helicopter in his sights. The bus was going in a straight line, and so the helicopter was going in a straight line. Like a big fat balloon, just waiting to be popped.

He squeezed the trigger.

"Hope you're insured."

* * *

Patti had heard some of the other chopper jockeys, the ones that had flown in the war, talk about what it was being like under fire. To fly a copter, you had to be invincible. And once you heard the ping of bullets against your hull or the flash of a rocket launching, the floor fell out from under you.

That's what it felt like, as the rocket streamed toward her. Like the ground had disappeared and she would fall forever. Patti closed her eyes and hoped that her husband could get sober. The kids would be relying on him from now on.

The helicopter, her body, turned into a fireball.

* * *

Batman saw a flash of light in the sky and briefly thought _Dawn?_ But no. The flaming helicopter dipped out of sight into the skyline, a dying animal's wail permeating even the Batmobile's armor plating. Batman deftly weaved the Batmobile in and out of traffic, slowing him down only a few MPH, and he hit the intersection. Red light, cars crossing. Near-superhuman reflexes told him he could make it.

The Batmobile seemed like an extension of himself, a weapon he could wield as precisely as a samurai sword, as he sped through the intersection. Put it through a sharp turn that sheared the pain from a sedan. Then he was facing down Belmont, facing the Joker in his bus. The flaming helicopter fell between them like a handkerchief starting a duel.

No more than an instant had passed.

Batman shifted into fourth gear.

* * *

"Oooh, he brought the car!" Joker clapped his hands excitedly. "Chicks dig the car!" He motioned to the hostages' minder, who was loading the rocket launcher. "Gimme gimme gimme! I wanna give that gloomy old hearse a new paintjob."

* * *

Patti was on fire, heat-fire-burn, and she wondered if she was in hell, stuck in the oven, lake of fire, the helicopter jerked out of its already rough spin as the tail smashed through the windows of the twentieth floor of the Foxteca Building. She was still alive, still horribly alive, and she screamed as the ground swallowed her whole.

* * *

Batman angled the car slightly to the left, putting its course clear of the helicopter's crash landing, and slammed the door release lever down. The cockpit slid open, letting a maelstrom in. A pull on the emergency release knob and his safety restraints detangled from him slackly. Grabbing the edges of his cockpit, he pulled himself upward, into the slipstream. His cowl functions moved to compensate, dampening the sound of the wind rushing by. He touched his cape to induce an electrical current, causing him to grow wings.

The wind scooped him up, treating the cape as a parachute, and Batman roughly landed behind the Batmobile. He skidded to a stop, heedlessly advanced on the helicopter as the Batmobile made a turn up ahead.

The rocket had blown one door off its hinges and swollen the other to the outside. Seeing that the fuel fire was blazing hottest in the open doorway, Batman went to the cracked door. His gloved hands wrapped around the bent steel, so hot Bruce could feel it even through the Nomex, and started to pull.

* * *

"What's he doing?" Joker asked. It was all perfect, the flame from the wreckage casting a long gothic shadow from Batsy like an extension of his cape, the rocket in his launcher primed and ready, but the Bat wasn't doing it right! "Hello, bad guy here! I'm getting away! La la la la! I hope Batman doesn't foil my perfect getaway!"

He threw the rocket launcher to the ground, making everyone in the bus cringe anew, and stomped to the front of the bus.

"Move over, Miss Daisy, I'm driving!"

* * *

Much like its pilot, the helicopter was still clinging to life. Its rotors buzzed madly, kicking up the flames and wrapping Batman's cape around his body. The pilot was still strapped in, flames eating away at her jumpsuit. Batman punched through the cracked glass, grabbing a fire extinguisher inside the cabin and emptying it onto the pilot. Over the roar of the flames… honking?

Batman looked up. The Metropolitan 5 was bearing down on him. The Joker was in the driver's seat, waving his arms wildly and shouting "No brakes! No brakes!"

No time for blowtorches, acid, anything but brute strength. The flame had weakened the chopper's metal; it would have to be enough. Batman braced one foot against the wreckage, centered his chi, _pulled_. The door gave way, ripped loose. The bus's horn screamed, only meters away. Batman grabbed the pilot out of her seat, ripping through her safety belt, and spun away.

The bus hit the wreckage, missing Batman by a few feet. Flaming shrapnel bombarded his back, thankfully protected by his cape, and the decapitated rotors windmilled across the asphalt. The bus roared by.

"Think we should exchange information, Bats?" Joker laughed as he literally left Batman in the dust.

Even as he tended to the pilot with one hand, Batman flipped open the touchpad on the side of his belt. He'd practiced with it for long hours in business meetings, to the point where he could drive the Batmobile with it—by touch. He set the speed to fifty MPH and the AI in pursuit mode.

The Batmobile completed its circuit and turned onto his road, then accelerated. Batman crouched, counted off the seconds, then backflipped. Six feet, up and back. If he'd miscalculated, he'd be roadkill.

He landed in a crouch, feeling the hum of the car's powerful engines through his boots. Batman had landed square on the Batmobile's hood. He stood, feeling the wind on his face, tugging on his cape. With the flick of a finger against the touchpad, the Batmobile accelerated to top speed.

It rammed the back of the bus, rocking everyone inside. Through the emergency exit, Batman saw the Joker turn around and express… not the fear his persona had been crafted to elicit, but _amusement_.

The clown jumped out of the driver's seat, leaving the bus driverless for the few seconds it took for a henchman to realize no one was driving, and ran down the aisle so fast he had to grab the edges of the exit to stop himself from falling out.

"Batman. _Darling_. I didn't know you surfed!"

"Pull over and release the hostages. Before you make me angry."

The Joker tapped on his lower lip ponderingly. "Put the kids to bed so that mommy and daddy can talk? Nah! Let 'em watch. They've gotta find out some day!"

"Then you leave me no choice."

"Oh, come off it! It's not like someone's holding a gun to your head." The Joker jerked his arm and a revolver fell from his sleeve into his hand. "Well, maybe it's a little bit like that."

Batman was unfazed. One of the improvements he'd made to his armor over the years had been to bulletproof it. He raised his hand and gestured for Joker to bring it, strategically putting his scalloped bracer close to his face in case he had to block a shot at his mouth or eyes.

The Joker pulled the trigger. Batman juked to dodge a bullet that never came. All that had emerged from the gun barrel was a flagpole with a pendant that read **Bang!**

"Gotcha," Joker said, and pulled the trigger again.

The flagpole shot out like a quarrel from a crossbow, lancing Batman's pectoralis major. The armor wasn't designed for that kind of penetration. The spear cut through, knocking Batman down onto the windshield. The tip must have been covered with some kind of painful neurotoxin; Batman blacked out.

The suit, monitoring his system, gave him a booster shot of adrenaline. When Batman raised his head, the bus had put some distance between them and the Joker was aiming a rocket launcher.

Batman rolled onto his belly, reaching into the open cockpit for the steering wheel. He felt the familiar circle and jerked it to the left, steering the Batmobile out of the way just as the Joker fired. The rocket put a new pothole in the Gotham street.

The Batmobile scraped against a line of parked cars on the side of the road. Side mirrors snapped off, windows shattered, doors were ripped from their hinges. Batman dragged himself into the cockpit as the line of parked cars ended.

The Batmobile drifted onto the sidewalk, tearing through parking meters like a thresher through wheat. Batman swung into his seat, ducking under an uprooted parking meter that would've taken his head off (coins stung his jaw), and grabbed the wheel. He swerved back onto the road just in time to miss a street walker waiting at the cross-walk.

* * *

"Holy shit," Holly said.

* * *

They were headed into East End now, a residential district if not exactly livable. There were people out, even at this time of night. Children. Families. The Joker's madness had to end _now_.

The cockpit slid shut as a punk appeared in the bus's emergency exit. He was holding a machine gun.

Batman calmly dug out the spear and patched the wound with quick-drying sealant as bullets ineffectually splashed off the Batmobile's armor. When they stopped, Batman selected an armament from the status screen.

"My turn."

A net launcher extended from the hood and fired. The punk took it full in the chest, flying backwards out of sight. As an afterthought, Batman turned on the windshield wipers. They swept the deformed slugs off the bulletproof glass.

* * *

Dean impacted the windshield right next to Joker, wrapped up tighter than a Christmas present in a mesh net. The Joker glanced at him.

"Some people just don't know how to use the net. Noob." He looked to Laurel and Hardy. "Go back there and teach him a lesson for putting the rescue of some piddling plebian above _me!_ Aim for his tires!"

The two pumped their shotguns, but before they could go the bus shook.

"What was that? A bus-quake?"

The Joker looked in the mirror. Two thick black cables had shot out of the Batmobile's front bumper and were embedded in the bus's rear. As he watched in disbelief, the Batmobile braked _hard_, tires skidding. The bus rocked again. Slowed down.

"Who taught that man how to drive!?"

Bloodshot eyes darted to the speedometer. Once proudly fixed at eighty miles per hour, now dropping fast. Bloodshot eyes widened, got more bloodshot. Then squinted as light hit them. Headlights.

The Joker smiled.

* * *

Batman kept a steady pressure on the brake pedal, not wanting to brake so hard the grapplers tore loose. Like a broken leg, like so much dead weight, he would drag the bus down. Then it would be his turn to have some fun.

Then the bus veered to the left, into oncoming traffic, the Batmobile dragged behind it. Batman pressed down hard on the brakes, so hard sparks shot out of the tires, but it was no good. Then the bus went back into the right lane, leaving the Batmobile in the left.

The oncoming car hit it. T-boned, since the Batmobile was following the bus. The other car got the worse of it, like hitting a tank-shaped brick wall. It flipped, back end catapulted into the air, then end over end over the Batmobile. Batman was able to look up and see the other driver, perturbed and confused, before his car came crashing down on the other side. It rolled and came to a stop, upside-down. No.

The bus drove into the left lane again. Batman shifted into neutral. Teeth clenched in rage, he threw open the cockpit and surged up to meet two creeps with shotguns. They fired as Batman ducked down into the cockpit. One blast hit the outside of the cockpit, bouncing off the lower windshield. The other went high and blew the stuffing out of his headrest. More bullets rained down. A ricochet in the close quarters of the cockpit could cause incredible damage.

Batman typed on a panel, exposing his arm to fire. **Bang!** A few pellets sparked off his bracer. He'd designed the grappler lines to be able to connect to the high-power car battery, to act as jumper cables. He shunted power from the car battery down the lines.

Electricity arced through the emergency exit's doorway, shocking the bastards. They dropped, twitching and foaming at the mouth. Batman rose, ran down the hood of the Batmobile and leapt into the emergency exit. He landed in the crouch Ra's had taught him, stood slowly. Slower was scarier than quick. Quick made you think you could outrun it, hide from it. Slow made you think it didn't matter, because the Bat would get to you no matter what you did.

It worked. He could see the shiver running down the henchmen's spines, freezing them before they could go for their guns. And before they could, he had crossed his arms over his chest and then thrown them wide. Four Batarangs, the new kind with the internal payload, scattered. Flashbangs. Got the idea from watching a SWAT team entry. It worked wonders.

A little burst of light, a little puff of tear gas, and the henchmen were no longer combatants. The Joker touched the flower on his lapel, sending a stream of piss-yellow acid from it onto the bus's dashboard. It melted from gauges to pedals.

"Abandon ship, mateys! Hate to burgle and run, Bats, but you don't get to die yet. Bruno, make our guest feel welcome."

"**Ja wohl.**"

Batman turned. 'Bruno' had been lurking behind him, like an ape in a tree. A big ape. She was six-foot-seven, possibly not even a she, mounds of silicone covered by swastika pasties. Sometimes, just when Batman thought he had Gotham figured out, the city threw something just entirely _out there_ at him.

If Superman were here, he'd say never hit a lady, even one with a prominent Adam's apple. Fortunately, Superman wasn't here.

"What about me?" the criminal netted to the windshield asked.

"First mate goes down with the ship," Joker replied.

"That's the captain!"

"Semantics," Joker buzzed as he casually stepped backward out of the bus.

Batman's opening punch ramrodded Bruno's stomach. She let out a little grunt of exertion, _hunh_, and backhanded him to the floor. Closed Batarangs spilled out of the open compartment on his utility belt like black metal flower petals. Reminded him of playing marbles with Rachel as a kid. Marbles. Toxin. His judgment. Runaway bus, _damnit_, pull-it-together~!

He got up, tasting the blood that trickled from his lip like the run-off from a sewer, and weighted his options in the five seconds he had before Bruno was on top of him. Runaway bus, had to bring it to a stop. Obstacle: Bruno. Had to put her/him out of commission. No time for strategy, seconds count, brute force. Blunt trauma to the head, worry about concussions later. Not like she doesn't have it coming.

Boxing. Batman didn't raise his dukes, just launched into an offensive that would've made Evander Holyfield proud. It should've; Evander had taught him everything he knew. He laid rights and lefts into Bruno, working her backwards. Her muscles weren't real, they were steroid balloons, she didn't know how to carry them. Made things easier.

The bus was drifting from side to side without a driver. A few passengers had tried to take over, but the Joker had thoroughly trashed the controls. They couldn't even turn the ignition off. And the Metropolitan 5 was moving too fast to jump off. They could only hang on as the bus clipped against cars parked on either side of the street, working its way back into the middle of the road with each jolting ricochet.

Bruno started to recover, work through the pain. Batman put a stop to that with a chop to her throat. The punch came anyway, a big right cross that swung over Batman's ducked head. It pulped the frame of a seat to the right. Batman kneed her in the chin, then sent her off-balance with a strong uppercut. She rocked back on her heels, tripped backward toward the open exit.

Batman slapped the touchpad on the side of his belt. The afterburner on the Batmobile flared. As Bruno fell out of the bus, the Batmobile rammed her head. Unconscious, she trickled up the hood to land upside-down in the cockpit. Batman pressed the control to close it, wedging her in place.

Batman sprinted to the front of the bus, clearing the passengers out of the way like they were ten-pins. They had drifted into oncoming traffic. With a chorus of horns, cars were swerving out of the way. Ahead was a turn. If they didn't make it, the apartment building would always stop them. Looked like they had room, even. Lucky night. Batman tapped on the touchpad.

"This is no time for video games!" the criminal in the net screamed.

"Everyone hang on to something," Batman ordered, before turning on the Batmobile's brakes.

The entire bus pitched forward, the tank it had been towing now having become not just a dead weight but a digging-in-its-heels-with-spikes-jutting-o

ut-of-the-tires weight. Batman allowed himself a smirk, that lasted as long as it took for the abrupt shift in speed to rip the grappler out of the bus… along with most of its rear axis. The bus, tailless, fell on what was left of its rear bumper. The passengers held on, trying to keep from falling down the slant to open road. A few charitable souls grabbed the unconscious Laurel and Hardy, stopping their descent. A body, the bus driver's, slid out of its resting place of dried blood to tumble out onto the street.

Batman looked up at the road. No more space. He quick-drew his grapple-gun, aimed it out the side-door, and fired. The grappling hook caught on a street lamp. Batman wound the line around the bus pole just before the line went taut.

The bus's contents shifted to the side, like a planet-scale slap, as it made the hard right. Batman held to the bus pole, using his free hand to cut off the line at the appropriate point. The bus came out of its turn on a new, safe heading.

Moving with fast, long strides, Batman leaned out the door with a Batarang in hand. He stabbed the right front tire with it, then flung it forward. It arced back to hit the left front tire. With both out, the Metropolitan 5 rapidly slowed to a stop. The feeling of being in motion, of being in the middle of a disaster, persisted. Batman kept his hand on the pole.

"Stay in your seats. The police will be here soon."

And it was true: sirens blared in the distance, echoed in his head. The toxin. It was going to work at his senses, hurting him. If hearing was going, what would be next? Vision? Touch? Would he never be able to touch Talia, sitting in a hospital bed… Batman shook his head. Not much time now, no time to get the bearing on that. He staggered out of the bus and back to where the Batmobile had stopped. An impossible journey. He switched the touchpad over to vocal command and detached it from his belt, raising it to his lips.

"Return."

Time skipped, like a record player on the fritz. It was like he was falling asleep, but while still standing. He sagged against a mail box, staying there until the Batmobile pulled to a stop next to him. The cockpit opened. He dragged Bruno out by the foot and climbed, fumblingly, into it. The safety harness engaged, ineffectually bouncing off his awkward positioning.

"Home."

The cockpit closed, cutting off the starlight, and Batman lapsed into a meditative state. He would beat this. By sheer force of will, he would beat this. He had to.

Batman grabbed for a blanket antibiotic. It flew out of his hand when the 18-wheeler broadsided the Batmobile. The Tumbler was rammed through cyclone fencing with a metallic echo. Tires revved impotently, finding no traction, as the Batmobile was dashed across the construction yard. It ended up on its side in a ditch, one side stoved in like a meteor's crater.

The truck backed up a ways, baring its demolished grill. The gear shifted to park. Joker stumbled out. "I only had a _few_ drinks, officer, promise!" he slurred. Then straightened, gestured to the men hanging onto the back of the cab. There were four of them, well-armed. Joker approvingly smeared their greasepaint. "Gentlemen, let's bag us a bat!" He took a cartoonishly round bomb from the glove compartment and tossed it from hand to hand. "Artie, got a light?"

Artie leaned out of the cab, holding a lighter. Joker touched the fuse to its flame.

"Much obliged, dear boy. Stay in the car."

The up-ended Batmobile ground its wheels, rattling like a snake.

Joker held the bomb up, then revved it forward and back like a bowling ball. "Shut the fuck up, Batty, you are out of your element!" He rolled the bomb under the Batmobile.

The blast knocked it up five feet, before dropping it onto the other end of the ditch. The cockpit was facing them, and ajar. The Joker gestured to the two clowns with tools. They hopped down and went to work on it, one with a sledgehammer, the other with a crowbar.

The ejection seat blew. It flew out of the cockpit, hitting one of the clowns and carrying him into the construction site's safety netting. The crowbar clattered down onto the gravel.

"We're gonna need another Timmy," Joker said, watching his minion struggle like a fly caught on flypaper.

A scalloped hand darted out of the cockpit's darkness and yanked the second clown inside with mad laughter. It ended with a sickening crack. The clown's hand fell into the light.

"You like it in the dark, Bats?" The Joker hopped down, tugging his lapels. "Come on. Come say hi. You're not afraid of me, are you?" He dropped trou, mooning Batman with bat-covered boxers. "What's the matter? You run out of toys? Here, have one of mine."

He tossed his gun into the cockpit. It never landed.

Batman lurched out of the blackness, one corner of his mouth trembling between a smile and a frown. "I don't need a gun to deal with you, Joker." He hurled the pistol aside and it shattered against the concrete embankment. "All I need… heh… are these two hands."

"Why, it sounds like you're starting to see the funny side of things!" Joker was holding up his pants with one hand. "Fine, then, let's settle this mano-e-mano, man-on-man! Just you and me… and my boys!"

The second set of clowns jumped down. They landed on Batman, wrestling him to the ground in a fit of titters.

"Tickle fight!" Joker exclaimed, bouncing a kick off Batman's ribs. Holding his arms, the clowns hauled Batman to his feet. "You might feel a little prick." Joker laid into Batman's chest. It hurt his knuckles more than the armor. "Gaah!"

Batman howled with laughter. Joker backhanded him across his unprotected chin.

"_That's not funny!_" He shook his hand. "Hey, here's a thought. Why don't we spice things up with some toys?"

* * *

Once he'd broken the lock on the tool shed, the hard part was deciding what to use. There was no dynamite, darn the luck, but they had a big shiny concrete saw that was just _wasted_ on concrete. And if you wanted to open a sardine can (i.e. Bat-armor), use a can opener.

"Now, if this stings, just remember the safe word: AAAAAAAHHHHH!!" Joker pulled the starter cord. The saw roared, covered up the grunt of pain when Batman rose up and kicked him in the gut. Batman's feet jutted to either side, snapping the clowns' legs, then his scalloped gauntlets raked across their faces. They went down crimson-masked.

When Joker had fallen, he'd lodged the concrete saw in the Batmobile's hood. Radiator steam and hot oil spewed as he tried to extract it. He looked over his shoulder at Batman.

"Little help here?"

Batman slammed him into the hood before throwing him against the other side of the ditch.

"A simple 'no' would've sufficed…"

With a hard jab to its touchpad, the Batmobile spun its wheels. Batman held Joker near the treads. "This how you put your nose to the grindstone? You're doing it wrong." The tire burned his cheek. "Ooooooh! You are seeing things more clearly! Because you know, you bring me in, I'll get out. You can't keep me in jail anymore than you can the Penguin." The tire spun and spun, inches from the Joker's face. "But you can't, can you? You have a _rule_. I am so disappointed in you. Here I thought we were two of a kind, lawless men in a town where the law is a bad joke, and now you've gone soft on me, you sell-out." An arm wrapped around his throat, squeezed. "Gordon and Dent have you on a leash. Oh, you bark and you slaver, but you've been neutered. They don't understand you like I do. I know what you really want," he rasped. His fingers went up, hooked on Batman's mouth and pulled it into a smile. The tension on his throat slackened. "You break your rule, just once, and you'll see the real world too."

Artie pumped three shots into the Dark Knight's back. Even as the third one fired, a Batarang was lancing into his head. Both men went down, leaving Joker shuddering in frustration. "Killus interruptus. Worse than no murder at all." He tugged half-heartedly on the concrete saw. "Joke's on all of us, then. Welp, nothing to do for it." He reached into his pocket. "I wrote a poem for the occasion. A-hem-hem. Wait, this is the rule card from a playing card deck." He threw it over his shoulder.

"Well, this is anticlimactic. I'd wanted grand guinol, lives at stake, the world watching as once and for all, we determined what was superior – your 'reason' and 'intellect' (finger quotes) or the divine gift men call madness. Oh well, that's the way the cookie crumbles." He pulled the saw free. "Say good night, Bats!" Joker held the saw high. Nothing happened. "'Good night, Bats,'" he falsettoed out the side of his mouth." More nothing happened. "I'm really going to do it now, I'm really going to kill him!" He threw the saw aside. "Damnation! Tarnation! Evaporation! This is the biggest disappointment since anthrax! Okay, you live to stalk another day, so instead of death, you get a consolation prize!" He pulled a syringe from his pocket. "You gave me a new outlook on life, now I'm gonna return the favor. Keep an eye out for the bunny in the moon. It loves the attention. Here comes the airplane…"

Batman lapsed into a haunted sleep, laughter ringing in his ears. In the time it took for him to close his eyes, he realized it was his own.

* * *

Jerry, now John S. Lee since the job was over, disposed of his shit like the Joker had told him to, keeping only the backpack fulla money. He was supposed to meet up with the others at the hide-out (what'd the clown call it, his hee-hee-house? Somethin' like that), but it'd be hours before they missed him. He had time to kill, and he was flush from pulling off such a brazen crime. No pussy penny-ante stuff, that was some serious Dog Day Afternoon shit. Fuck yeah.

He emerged from an alleyway, onto the amber-colored world of a street in the AM. Just him and a drug dealer on a street corner, wearing a Star City U hoodie. John gave him a wide berth as he settled on a stoop, opening the backpack and transferring a brick of cash into his pocket. Felt even better than a gun. He zipped up the backpack, hoisted it onto his back, started walking again. The next street had some hookers huddled together round a trash can fire with a bum, passing cigarettes around. They flaunted themselves at him as he walked by, but no matter how old they were, they looked like they could've been in their sixties.

The next street, run down even by East End standards, had its light provided by a flickering streetlight. Under it, a hooker was typing text into her cell-phone. Young, even by hooker standards, but not used up. Her blonde hair had some sheen and her make-up was applied with a careful hand. Probably could count the number of dicks she's sucked on two hands. Looks weren't half-bad either, even with the night cold causing her to zip up her top over her body. If the top matched the bottom, though… he licked his lips.

Jerry started the dance. Brushed by her as he walked by, causing her to look up sharply from her phone, then leaned against the street lamp. After apparently sizing him up, blondie turned back to her phone.

"Nice night, huh?"

"Wicked cold," she said.

"There's a fire next street over."

"Nah. Buncha skanks around it."

Jerry laughed. "Not high-class like you, neh?"

She gave him an odd look, and pressed send.

"So, how much?"

"How much for what?"

He flashed some cash at her. "I'm not a cop, babe."

She actually blushed. Adorable. "I'm not a sex worker."

"A _sex worker_. Whoa. What's that make you, an escort?"

"A student, asshole. I'm waiting for a ride."

"This doesn't look like tha bus stop."

"My dad was supposed to pick me up. He's late."

"How long you been waiting?"

"Long enough." She started walking away from him. Jerry snorted, folded the cash back into his pocket. Hell, he hated it when whores got uppity.

She was headed back toward the street with the fire. He trailed after her. "Hey, think we got off to a bad start?"

"Go fuck yourself."

"Hey, I'm tryin' to be nice. What's your name? My name's Jerry." Things went south, he didn't want her to have his real name, and he was already used to answering to that.

"I said fuck off."

He walked a little faster, getting closer. "C'mon, I just want your name. Can't ya be nice?"

"I can be nice." It was a voice, low and sultry as jazz, and as Jerry turned he expected to find a real hooker. Of course, he wasn't quite sure he was ready to give up on the girl… most hookers were all worn-out and crag-lookin', and he wouldn't mind wiping that holier-than-thou look offa the schoolgirl's pretty face either—

The whip circled his neck, instantly cutting off his neck, its pronged-tip scourging his cheek as it came to a rest. Jerry tried to pull the noose off, but before he could he was jerked off his feet and down to the pavement. Before he could get up, a leather bootheel was jammed into his cheek, smearing his face into the asphalt.

"I prefer to be though. Lifestyle choice. Very personal. Lots of hard thinking. Kitten, money?"

Jerry tried to get up, but the whip pulled tighter and he gagged until he consented to stay down. Then air returned. He felt hands rifling through his pockets. Slender, quick hands. The schoolgirl. Fuck!

"How's school?" the woman holding him down like a dominatrix asked the schoolgirl, chatty as a gossip.

Steph shrugged as she patted the robber down. "It's school."

"Teachers giving you any problems?"

"No."

"You giving the teachers any problems?"

Steph grinned. "Yeah."

"That's my girl."

Jerry was trying, trying real hard, to think up a way out of this clusterfuck when he heard the sound of his backpack being unzipped. Icicles formed in his guts. "Hey, Cat, look at this!"

The woman with a heel in his face wolf-whistled. "Let me guess, Laundromat money?"

"Fuck you, bitch, that's the Joker's loot."

"Not anymore." The heel came off his face, to be replaced by a knee across the back of his neck. She was fucking kneeling on him, Jesus! "Tell the Joker this. In fact, put it in the next sexual predators' newsletter. East End is my hunting ground and it's open season on all scumbags."

Then the whip tightened until everything went black. When he woke up, the money was gone. So were his clothes, except for a sandwich board that had **Property of Catwoman** blazoned on it.


	18. The Day Without Batman

Gotham was off somehow. As they burned rubber through the streets, Joker could sense it. It was like canned applause or a comedian with no sense of timing. Just wrong. And not good wrong, like the ghoulish jester himself. It wasn't good or bad, it was a lack.

Bats was gone.

Joker could feel it all day. His usual natural high was flat, a bad acid trip. Fear had no flavor. He felt woefully… incomplete.

The Joker was a good scientist, or he had been in one choice path. He would prick the city to see if it bled, and if the city didn't respond with a prick of her own… tall, dark, and batty…

Metropolis was nice this time of year. That was a negative. But think of it…! Pie fights with Kryptonite-flavored custard! Plus a barbed-wire toupee for chrome-dome and some sex appeal from Lois Legs. It was enough to give him the giggles.

"You want me to pull out, boss?" the new guy, Artie, one of the many opening acts that had flocked behind the clown prince's curtain after the Bat's pantsing. Would that give the Dark Knight a full moon?

Joker let out another carcinogenic chuckle. "No, you third-rate heckler! We've gotta keep this show on the road! Step on it!"

Artie glanced at the speedometer. "We're going ten miles over the speed limit as is! We could get pulled over."

Joker stomped Artie's foot to the gas pedal. "Sorry, wide stance."

Artie struggled to maneuver as they redlined. Even with the sparse night traffic, speeds of over a hundred MPH turned the road into an obstacle course.

They'd taken a van from the growing fleet of Jokermobiles, with an airbrushed Sunday comic strip mural of the Joker beating Batman into a state of cartoon catastrophe – black eye, lumps to match his pointed ears, little bats flying in circles around his steak-soothed head, a full body cast, and finally Batman as a harp-playing, robe-wearing bat-angel amongst fluffy clouds and pearly gates. Among the throngs of street racers, drunk drivers, and gang cars of Gotham's night traffic, the only attention it attracted were kicks to its sticker-studded rear bumper ("Nuke the whales," "I molested your honor student," "My other car is a hearse," and of course, "Reelect Harvey Dent – A District Attorney We Can Believe In") when parked.

As Artie had worried, a wailing siren was soon at their heels. "Shouldn't all the good little cops and coppettes be tucked in by now?" Joker asked pointedly.

"Maybe we should pull over. We can tell them we're going to a costume party."

Joker twisted Artie's ear. "Arthur, Arthur, Arthur," Joker said, deadly serious. "That would be lying." Like an average dad tending to his 2.5 spawn on a long road trip, Joker turned to the clowns packed into the backseat. "Don't you worry, Joker's made a few after-market modifications to the General Rommel here. Bucket seats, bigger cupholders, and a dash of Uncle Joker's special sauce."

He pressed a button on the dash. A thick glurging sound filled the van, and it trailed white goo.

"Know what you get when you add special sauce to cops?"

The pursuing cop car hit the streak of white and instantly its wheels lost traction. It reeled from side to side, out of control, until finally it blundered through an intersection into the path of an oncoming semi.

"Street pizza!" the Joker cried over the blaring horns and dying metal. "The secret ingredient is love," he intoned sentimentally.

They sparked to a stop in Warsaw, a ghetto for Russian immigrants and a haven for the Chechen Mob. The streets were lined with big, blocky cars; all painted darkly. The buildings were the sort of ugly tenements that even Gotham had torn down, except in Warsaw where the slum lords still held the whip with Soviet authority. Deprive them of even one red cent (Joker tittered at his mental pun) and they'd come down like a hammer. So the Harlequin of Hate would be sure to take two or three or ten million.

He and the boys walked this way (they all dutifully mimicked his gait, having learned from the palooka he'd kneecapped) to the door of the local gambling den. If doors could walk, this one would've stepped right out of a Prohibition-era speakeasy. Joker pulled his fist back for a dramatic knock, then petitely rapped on the steel door.

A slot opened at what would be eye-level… for Andre the Giant. Joker stood on his tippy-toes to see inside. He found himself staring into a pair of none-too-friendly, deep-set eyes. "Hi, I'm working my way through college selling Grit; may I speak to the man of the house? I'm just kidding, you'll do fine. The Penguin sent me bearing gifts."

The man on the other side of the door got a little taller, un-stooping to look down at Joker and expose his nicotine-yellow teeth. "Are you joking?"

"Do I look like I'm joking?" The Joker preened. "Here, we've got a complimentary gift basket with a set of Iceberg Lounge notepads, a voucher for a free meal at Sizzler, and here, have a cigar."

He stuffed a far Cuban between those yellowing teeth, lit a match on Artie's cheek, then touched the flame to the tip of the cigar. The Joker turned away, arms crossed, as the Russian puffed away bewilderedly. Then a loud explosion shot blood through the eyeslot to stain Artie's shirtfront.

"Who else saw that coming?" Joker asked, jaded as a three-time divorcee.

The gang all raised their hands while pained screams and death-moans issued from inside the gambling den.

"See! I'm just no good without Batman. I'm like Jerry Lewis without Dean Martin, Penn without Teller, Turner without Hooch!" He grabbed Artie by the lapels and shook him like a British nanny. "Where is he!? At home? Washing his tights?" The door fell open, its inside splattered with gore. "Oh, goodie, they've decided to roll out the blood-red carpet," Joker said in his manic-depressive calm.

The Joker strolled inside. His men went to work tending to the wounded, using all sorts of cutlery to carve permanent smiles into their throats. The doorman had been blown clear across the room, the explosion peeling back his face to expose an eternal yellow-toothed grin. The Joker loved it so much he decided to take it as a souvenir. He bent down and worked at the skull until it was wrenched loose. "Alas, poor Yorick. I blew him well."

He tossed the skull from one hand to the other. "A fellow of infinite jest," he chimed to himself.

Two survivors with minimal injuries were brought before him. The Joker smiled at them, looking from one to the other.

"Please!" the first one begged in heavily-accented English. "I have family!"

"What, you want me to kill them too? Think fast!" the Joker non-sequitured, b-balling the skull to Artie. He caught it, and wished he hadn't. "That's the way to get a head in life," Joker crowed, before drawing his gun and making his serious face. "Now, one of you I need to go to your boss and tell him that the Penguin isn't happy, feet or otherwise. The other guy I _need_ to kill. It cannot be corrected, but I have no other way to fulfill my needs."

He knelt before the first man, wiping a bead of sweat off the tip of his nose with the gun's barrel. "Knock, knock."

"W-w-who is there?"

"Orange."

"Orange who?"

"Orange you glad I didn't say bang, bang?" The Joker smiled all the way to his ears as he turned to the other man. "Bang, bang."

"Who's there!" the second man said quickly.

He was shot twice through the heart. "The Joker."

The clown prince of crime turned back to the first man. "Now, where's the money—hold on, I forgot the rule of three!" He put a bullet through the dead man's head. Gray matter speckled the survivor's face. He pissed himself.

"Uh-oh!" The Joker put his hands to his cheeks. "Someone isn't ready for big-girl panties just yet."

The Russian told him where the safe was, what its combination was, and his fervent wish not to die. The Joker took some lipstick from his pocket and painted a No. 23 Rouge Orange smile across the Russian's face. "You've been a lovely audience. I wish I could take you home and lock you in my basement, but it would never work out between us. We come from two different worlds, you and I." He kissed the Russian on the cheek. "Go on, run home, get out of here." The Russian ran for it. "I'll never let go, Jack!"

With a workmanly sigh, Joker trudged to the safe, punched in the combination, and was regarded with a satchel filled to the brim with bricks of cash. "Another day, another hundred thousand dollars. Remember that time we hijacked a bus and Batman chased us? Seems like yesterday."

"It was yesterday. Where's my cut?"

It was Dour Dusty, a gloomy-gus if ever there was one. Joker would prefer if all the money went into the punchline… he got giggles just thinking about it… but he realized that some money had to go to the people who didn't get the joke. Still, no reason to be rude.

"Here's your cut."

Like a card trick, a knife appeared in his hand. Unlike a card trick, it opened up a bloody line across Dusty's throat.

"Get it? Because he was referring to cut like his share of the loot, while I was saying cut like with a knife? It's funny!" Crickets chirped. Artie Brown laughed weakly. "You're right, too low-brow. Next guy who complains, I kill with French farce."

* * *

The Joker felt no joy in seeing the smiles of his new friends. He'd lost count of how many he'd made. It could've been ten, it could've been ten million. It was all the same to him. But it wasn't to Batman. The Batman kept count. And Joker loved him for it.

He staggered out into the night air, police sirens a distant serenade. By pressing down hard on the cash, he was able to make enough room in the satchel for Yorick. With sluicy results.

"How's that for blood money?" he quipped, trading the bag for a henchman's assault rifle.

The first patrol car on the scene rounded the corner. Joker opened up on it. Under his barrage, the front tires popped, the hood shot up, the radiator loosed steam, the windshield was perforated, and the cab was splashed with blood.

"I am a murderer!" he screamed into the night sky. "I am _the_ murderer! I am evil, I am corruption, I am the Joker!" His voice lowered to a child's taunting whisper. "Twinkle twinkle, little bat, how I wonder where you're at…"

The men dragged him into the Jokermobile. More cops were coming.

"If there's one thing I hate, it's a prima donna who misses his curtain."

* * *

Jim Gordon was still rubbing the sleep from his eyes when he went out for the morning newspaper and found Harvey Dent parked on the curb. His car, a black 2002 Oldsmobile, had lost its passenger-side door to a motorcyclist and had it replaced with a white car door. Harvey had seemed to appreciate having some personality to break up the oppressive darkness of the car.

Today, however, he was in a fine state of agitation. His suit, for a workaholic like Harvey was seemingly never without his suit, was almost as pressed as always. The collar and cuffs were frayed, though, and his tie flew up like a cobra at the slightest breeze. Still, in his bathrobe and Bat-slippers (a gift from the boys one Christmas), Gordon had no room to judge.

"You see the figures overnight?" Harvey demanded. He had a fax clenched in one hand and was working a silver dollar around in the other. "45% increase in reports of violent crime!"

"Good morning to you too." Gordon stooped to retrieve the paper. "We've had worse. Remember the Riddler's crime wave?"

"You're not getting it. This was an hourly upswing, practically exponential!" Muscles were clenching on the left side of Harvey's jaw, like he was chewing back an even more explosive anger. "The only thing that stopped a full-blown riot was the sun coming up."

Gordon tapped the paper against his leg. It was too early in the morning for this. "Alright, we'll double patrols tonight, round up all the usual suspects, roust the usual dives. Maybe we can keep them off-balance long enough for the fervor to go down. We'll need arrest warrants for the Mafiosos, even if it won't stick."

"Already done, but it won't be enough!" Harvey insisted, waving the fax angrily.

"And what will be enough? Setting a curfew? Calling the National Guard?"

"It'd be a start." Harvey was dead serious. "Read the figures, Jim."

Gordon took the fax in his wearied grip. "I need my glasses. Come inside, have you eaten? Of course you haven't. We have waffles and cereal. And hurry up, too, before the sprinkler starts up."

"Sprinkler?"

* * *

Harvey wrung out his damp overshirt in the sink before handing it to Sarah Gordon for a roll in the dryer. He'd dried his skin off with paper towels, but his pants and undershirt were still dripping into small pools on the kitchen linoleum. With final scouring of his hands and forearms, he sat down in the kitchen nook.

"Here you are, Mr. Dent," Barbara said as she dropped a plate of waffles onto the table. As a girl (well, a girlier girl), she'd had a massive crush on the dashing attorney. Even though he was married and she was dating, some flames never went out all the way.

"Thanks, Barb." Harvey took a fork, but only to jab it at conversational topics. "Tonight is when the real trouble starts. As long as people are saying that Batman's off the streets, it won't matter whether it's true or not. The crooks are going to feel invincible. Unless someone puts a boot to their neck, they're going to run rampant. I may hate what the Bat stands for, but goddamn if we don't need one tonight."

Gordon reached over to steal one of Harvey's waffles, but was foiled by Barbara setting down a bowl of Kellogg's in front of him. He gave her a hangdog look.

"Remember what the doctor said."

Harvey hadn't even noticed, so lost was he in thought. "We were too reliant on Batman. Only superstition kept the crime rate down, not police work. Now with him gone…"

Gordon took a miserable spoonful of healthy cereal. "Batman works with the police," he told Harvey. "He improves our effectiveness, he doesn't nullify it."

Barbara sat down at the table, a slight but significant breach of familial protocol. "Like Superman in Metropolis. The crime rate skyrocketed when he left, but no one thinks he should leave now. Except for Lex Luthor, and that guy's a…"

"Barbara, we have company!" Sarah chided. "Anyone want coffee before I go to kick James Jr. into gear?"

"No thanks." "I'm fine." "I'll just have some OJ."

"Fridge door, and use the one that's already open," Sarah chimed on her way up the stairs.

Barbara grabbed the carton, shook it to see how full it was, then finished off what little was left. Harvey watched this with the enmity that grouchiness has for the cheerful. Before he could make any acidic comment, Gordon cut him off.

"Superman is, by definition, a special case."

Harvey nodded. "He has powers beyond the ken of mortal man. You can't compare that to Batman. _He_ just goes to the gym a lot."

"Doesn't that make him… better?" Barbara asked. "Anyone could do the good Batman does. If he falls, another can rise up, and another, and another…"

"'Though you die, Bat-Resistance lives on,'" Harvey sang. Gordon cracked a smile that more than earned the Look Barbara gave him. "Barb, you're too young for this, but Jim, don't you ever wish we could go back to the way things were? No Batmen, no Jokers, just cops and robbers?"

"And Falcone in charge of everything? No thanks. Batman's a necessary evil to bring Gotham back."

"There's no such thing as a necessary evil," Harvey said in the manner of someone quoting a Bible verse, his fork tracing languid circles in the air. Realizing what he was doing like a man waking from a day-dream, he dropped his fork to his plate. "Come on, let's go to work. I wanna see Penguin's face when we bust his ass."

Gordon grabbed his coat. "It'll make a nice dress rehearsal for the real thing."

* * *

"This is outrageous!" Cobblepot squawked, thrusting his umbrella at Dent's chest.

"Waugh, waugh, waugh," Harvey mocked, deflecting the tip of the umbrella with the side of his hand. "We had reports that you were selling alcohol to minors, and that meant we just had to come down and investigate. Then we were shocked, _shocked_, to discover gambling in your establishment."

"I had my license approved months ago!"

"Really? My office didn't get the memo." Harvey gave him The Grin, the Apollo grin, the grin that'd won him the election, and he made it unattractively smug just for good measure. "That's bureaucracy for you, huh?"

The officers that had set up shop in the Lounge were checking all the guests for concealed weapons and other contraband. One twitchy-looking gambler grabbed a knife from his pocket and made a run at Dent. He was halfway through an unintelligible curse against the DA when Gordon calmly dropped him with a clothesline, then rotated his shoulder almost apologetically

Harvey smiled and lolled his head back to Oswald. "Nice clientele you've got here."

"Mock while you can, lawyer, but this will be a bad night to be a good cop. No Bat to watch your back."

Harvey's smile widened, but on the left side of his face it turned downward, spoiling into a scowl. He leaned in close. "There'll be no Batman to protect you from me. Think about that."

* * *

"Fighting in school," New Mom chided, burning away the second chance Tim had allotted her after the costume party. He'd just gotten home from school to find Dana lying in ambush.

"Disgraceful," Jack added, earning him a spot on Tim's crap list while barely looking up from his evening paper.

Tim gave thought to pleading his case. The other guy had been needling him about Batman's death, which was BS, and even then Tim hadn't done anything until the bastard had called Chloe a name. Tim had just said that she would've reported it if Batman had died, but all she'd posted were sightings of an unidentified flying man in Gotham air space… three guesses… and the guy had said that Chloe was a nut.

She _wasn't_.

Tim was no dummy. He knew if he told his parents all that, they would start wondering how close he was to Chloe. And no matter what Tim would like the answer to be, that would lead to trouble. So he held ice to his bruised face with his scraped knuckles, listening to Dana's lecture without telling her she wasn't his mother because she should darn well know, and finally went to his room without supper.

There was a girl there. At least, he thought it was a girl. It wore a purple rain slicker and a black ski mask that robbed the human body of all gender. As soon as he slammed his door shut, she leapt from the closet to tackle him to the bed. Tim felt more comfortable thinking of her as a she, because if she were a guy…

That night, Tim had a rather bewildering dream about Chloe, who'd been naked, jumping out of his closet.

"Timothy Drake?" she (not Chloe, the other one) asked. It was either a girl's voice or the most effeminate man this side of Will & Grace.

A wild idea of the guy he'd fought with sending a ninja assassin to avenge his honor occurred to Tim. "Konichiwa?"

"I'm not going to hurt you, I came to talk. I've been waiting in your closet for hours!" She let him up. "Do you ever wash your socks?"

"How did you know it was my room?"

The girl in purple stared at him.

Tim remembered the one or two Batman posters he'd never taken down. And action figures. And pillowcase. "I've been meaning to redecorate."

"You the head of the Batman fan club or not?"

Tim worked his molars. "It's an _appreciation society._"

The girl waved her hand like she was karate-chopping the idea out of existence. "Whatev. Can you get a message to the Batman? I tried the Wonder Boys, but they were too busy hating black people to be any help."

"I love black people!" Tim said in his own defense. He was still sitting on his bed, so he leapt up. After the blows he'd suffered to his pride, he felt the inexplicable need to prove himself to her. "And anything you can say to Batman, you can say to me."

"So you can get a message to Batman?" she reiterated, resting her hands on his hips.

"We're like _this_," Tim said, crossing his fingers.

"Good. The Joker's planning a hit on the Penguin. It's going down at the Iceberg Lounge. Bats might wanna look into it."

"Oh, he will. You just leave it all to him." The more confident Tim sounded, the faster his heart raced. It didn't help that the purple rain slicker was just tight enough to hint at the beginnings of breasts, the rounding of womanly hips… and she was alone with him, right next to his bed.

"Good. I'll be in touch if I learn anything else." She bounded onto his windowsill and threw open the pane.

"Wait!" Tim had a thousand questions and they all crashed together on his tongue. The last one in line avoided the pile-up and made it out his mouth. "Why _purple_?"

Her really rather pretty eyes narrowed. She pinched the slicker between her fingers. "It's _eggplant_. Purple would be _stupid_."

* * *

Barbara had only been keeping the costume until she could think of a way to get rid of it. She was pretty sure Batgirl was guilty of inciting a riot. And it wasn't like her parents would never notice. So, Batgirl no more.

Then Batman had gone and… not _died_, but… Gotham needed a guardian. Why couldn't it be her? Even Batman must've started somewhere.

This wasn't a costume party. This wasn't social activism. This was combat against stone-cold killers. She would have to even the playing field.

A quotation drifted to the surface of her mind. God may have made men, but Samuel Colt made them equal. And Barbara had seen her dad punch his code into the safe enough times…

She waited until mom was out to pick up James Jr., then opened the safe just long enough to grab the .380. Not a man-stopper, in this age of Kevlar vests, but she wasn't looking to put anyone in the ground. She added a holster and quick-load cylinders stuffed with ACP rounds to her belt, then waited for dark.

Barbara passed the time at the target range, aiming for arms, legs. Dad had insisted she learned to shoot after the Narrows Attack. He'd blustered and pretended it was just because "a police chief's daughter should know how to shoot," but they both knew that if another disaster hit the cops, Barbara would be protecting not just herself, but her baby brother.

Same principle here. Just with the entire city instead of James Jr.

It was night by the time she finally put the suit on. She'd modified it. More practical, more militaristic. No more high-heeled boots, thought they were kicky. Not the right kind of kicky. Steel-toed boots… now that was the right kind.

She heard the bark of her window opening. Dick. Had to be. She was in her closet, so she turned off the light and pulled the door shut. Not quick enough. Dick's voice was a whisper, but loud enough for her to tell he knew she was there.

"Babs."

"You can't be here," she said through the closet door. She heard his footsteps get closer. "Please, before my parents…"

"Your dad is at work and your mom's car isn't in the driveway."

"If my brother saw you, he'd tell them."

"He'll keep his secret. He's a little brother, I speak his language." The groan of bedsprings marked him sitting down. "Look. Word on the street is that the Batman won't be taking care of business tonight. Cops are outmatched. Hate to say it, but it's true. So I thought you and yours might be in trouble. So, I figured we would go grab a late dinner, maybe take in a show… you know, not be in harm's way. Or, uh, I could stay here with you. I'm pretty good in a fight, you know."

Barbara smiled, but worked hard to keep it out of her voice. "That's sweet of you, but the only trouble I'm in is the possibility of you getting caught. You really should leave."

"This isn't some excuse to put the moves on you, okay? You're in real danger."

Barbara's hand curled around the butt of the gun. She wanted to be reassured it was still a weapon, her weapon, and not some cancerous growth that had massed on her thigh. "I can take care of myself."

Dick guffawed. "This isn't a baked goods sale. The city you live in isn't the one I do. It's a whole 'nother beast. It's rough and dirty and…" He padded closer to the closet door. "Let me help you. Please. If not for you, or your brother, then for me."

"If you go now, I'll still be willing to talk to you tomorrow. Otherwise, no promises."

She could practically see his discontent working its way through its body, bobbing him on the balls of his feet and clenching his fists, before he nodded stiffly. "Okay. You have my number. You get scared, you hear a weird noise…"

"I'll call the police."

"…yeah. That too."

Finally, he left. Barbara considered going after him. It probably would be safer. Saner, certainly. She cracked the door a ways, saw him pausing at her window.

"Whatever you do, don't go out tonight. It's not safe."

_It will be._

* * *

Oswald Cobblepot had, and the joke was obvious to him, been smoothing ruffled feathers all day. The Russians were certain he had something to do with a hit on one of their boorish get-togethers and wanted the Joker's head. Cobblepot was inclined to give it to them.

The Joker was looking more and more like good money after bad, more interested in his own hidden agenda than in removing the pugilistic pest. If the Joker knew what was good for him, he would realize his error and take his "business" elsewhere.

Even so, it was a surprise to find the Joker in his office, sitting at his desk, shuffling his set of novelty playing cards with the Escher mosaic of birds metamorphosing into fish on the back. The caged birds that provided his office with a teahouse atmosphere and delighted him with their orchestral singing were now squawking in fear.

The Joker's smile was that of the cat that got the cream. "Not that I'm not feeling homicidal, but my pa always said it was a sin to kill a mockingbird." He split the deck. "You have a lot of not-hummingbirds."

Cobblepot slammed the door behind him. He knew it was useless to tell the Joker they weren't to be seen together… the clown probably thought they were bosom buddies. "The only bird that should be in-season for you is the albatross around my neck: Batman! I want his head on a pike!"

"Will a lance do?" In a burst of rage, Joker threw the deck of cards at the one of the birdcages. It exploded in a flurry, leaving the joker card on the inside of the cage. "Batman's flown the coop. Gone south for the winter. Taken his wonderful toys and gone Bat-home. But don't you worry your balding little head about it, Pengy, I'm preparing him a warm welcome. So warm that as soon as he gets back, his goose is cooked. All I need is a little more goose to gander." He took out another deck of cards and began to extract it from the box and plastic it came in.

Cobblepot struck a match on his matchbook (emblazoned with the Iceberg Lounge's logo) and lit an imported cigarette. Extravagantly, he placed the ivory-white cigarette in an obsidian holder. The ember at the end flared to match the vein pulsing on his forehead. With a breath, a powder-puff of ashes smogged directly across the Joker's pasty face.

The Penguin hated bird jokes.

"You've let that rodent rapscallion slip through your fingers and you expect to be rewarded for it!?"

The Joker let cards drip off the new deck to tap the desk thoughtfully. "Yes. That's it exactly. Glad to see we're on the same page."

"We're not on the same page! We are no longer even in the same book!"

The Joker collected his fanned-out cards. "I take it you're upset."

"Upset? Enraged! Were I you, Mr. Joker, I would take my ill-gotten gains and leave Gotham while my legs could still carry me!"

"Well, if that's the way it's going to be… I declare war."

The Joker fell silent. He basked in Cobblepot's unease until a smile opened like the gates of hell from one end of his face to the other. Then he set the deck of cards facedown on the desk. "Well, you go first."

Cobblepot sighed in relief. The Joker was still a weird one, but better to play through one of his pranks than get caught up in violence. He took the top card. It was a joker, the eyes scratched out, the mouth an eruption of red crayon. And the face a picture of Oswald Cobblepot.

"Sorry. You lose. House rules."

Cobblepot tapped a bit of ash out on the playing card. "This running gag has become tiresome. Frick, Frack!" he called. Twin brothers dressed in identically-cut suits rushed in. Their drawn guns were the most readily distinguishable difference between them. "Escort our guest to an early grave."

The bodyguards walked past Cobblepot to flank Joker. And turn impassively to the Penguin.

"Impeccable timing," the Joker quipped. "Sorry, Pengy. You may pay them, but they fear me. Besides, I offer full dental coverage." He picked up an old-fashioned tommy gun from behind the desk. "Sal Maroni sends his regards… and lotsa lotsa bullets!"

Cobblepot snatched up an umbrella from the rack and pointed it at the Joker. Clown and new henchmen were advancing on the Penguin in a tight wedge. "Those don't work on lead rain, birdbrain. What're ya gonna do, umbrella me to death?"

Cobblepot's anxious fingers found a hidden trigger and pressed it. Instantly, a jet of flame shot from the tip. The Joker covered his face, but his purple overcoat was set on fire. He stripped it off, hot footing all the while. The Penguin made a break for it as fast as his stubby legs would carry him. The Joker stomped after him, literally smoldering.

* * *

Commissioner Gordon supposed that there were always ways for Gotham to make things worse. Take his physical, for instance. The doctor had insisted he needed less fatty foods. So when Bullock announced a donut run, despite it being the hardest day he'd had in months, Gordon only let himself be put down for one éclair and a mini-carton of milk. When Bullock got back, the aroma was torture.

"Hey, commish, good idea on the Batsignal," Bullock chuffed.

"How's that?"

"Turning it on to make the crooks think we've still got Batman working for us. Pretty sneaky."

"I didn't order the signal turned on."

A moment passed as the squad room waited for someone to claim responsibility. Then they stormed the roof.

* * *

"Please don't tell my parents," Tim Drake said, lip trembling in what Gordon would rate half-sympathy bid, half-genuine fear.

With paternal trustworthiness, Gordon hunched down with his hands on his knees in front of the lad. "Relax, kid, you're not in any trouble. Just tell us one thing. If Batman didn't answer the signal, who did?"

* * *

The Joker bore down on the Penguin until there was only a single door between them. He paused -- "Ozzy Ozzy oxen-free!" – and shoved through. Cobblepot was out of the offices and into the club lounge, bulldozing through his own guests to get to the exit. Joker took careful, but not too careful, aim.

"Duck season," he said, his finger on the trigger.

Something exploded above him. It was glass. Joker looked up as he shielded his face and saw a dark, yellow-tailed comet crashing through the frosted glass skylight. Yellow boots touched down in front of him, a black figure curled around them. It slowly erected itself, growing until they were eye to mascaraed eye.

"Wabbit season," Batgirl said.

"A window, a skylight…" The Joker brushed some safety glass pebbles off his shoulder. "Can't you ever use a door?"

He could swear he saw a smile as she sidekicked him through the door. He slid to a stop at the feet of the twins, who now wore identical fire extinguisher foam. Joker lifted a hand to point at Batgirl.

"Humor her."

Batgirl's hand slapped her belt and reappeared with a metal tube in it. A flick of the wrist and the cylinder extended into a baton. She zig-zagged it between the two men, first dislodging their guns, then ricocheting between them left-right right-left. Finally she pirouetted at whirlwind speed, slashing the baton across both their temples. They buckled. Dropped.

The baton spun in her hand like the bat of a homerun hitter, then pointed at the Joker. "And now I'm gonna stick it to you."

The Joker pointed past her. "I think they may have dibs."

While Batgirl had been fighting the twins, Penguin had returned with the nearest loyal soldiers he could find. There were seven of them, bruisers all, with automatic weaponry. The patrons that hadn't already fled quickly got out of the way. Joker and Batgirl similarly parted, taking cover on either side of the door as gunfire blitzed through it.

Joker shouted to be heard over the bullets separating them. "So, Brat-girl, how about ditching the hero and getting with a zero-survival-rate? You'd look good in purple… maybe a nice lavender. And you already know your way around a tube of lipstick…"

"…_ewwwww!_"

The Joker made a face like a silent film star playing heartbroken. It was too hammy to ever pass for sincere. "Unfortunately, I have a problem with rejection." He raised the tommy gun toward her. She clutched her own pistol. "Hello, cruel world!"

With that, he leapt out into the waning gunfire. One or two bullets splashed against his chest, but he was fortified by his insanity. His machine gun started blazing and didn't stop. Three gangsters and two civilians dropped dead from the first blast. Batgirl, screaming incoherently, leapt out to brain Joker with her pistol. He dropped to one knee.

The gangsters popped out of hiding as well. Batgirl yanked Joker up to use as a human shield. She felt the shock of an impact through his thin chest. Her return fire kneecapped the gangsters, dropping them in their tracks. The Penguin waddled to the aquarium and dived in. The patrons were falling over each other to get out. Batgirl hauled the Joker to his feet, wondering why his bullet wounds weren't bleeding. He backhanded her. Hard. When she hit the floor, a trickle of blood was already pouring from her lips.

"Bulletproof vest. I'm crazy, not stupid." He jerked her up by the hair. "Whereas you're too stupid to be crazy."

She tried to pistol-whip him again, but he caught her fist and forced the gun toward her face. The only thing that saved her was the groan of a gangster shot in the leg rising to his feet. Joker pivoted, like they were dancing, and fired the gun in their joined hand. The bullet blew the gangster's brains out before poking a hole in the aquarium's glass wall. Water arced out.

Batgirl roared. With rage came strength. She kneed Joker in the stomach, rattling slugs loose from his Kevlar, and wrenched the gun away. A second later it was reloaded and aimed at his head. "Hands on your head. Down on the ground."

"I'm not that kind of girl." Like he was suspended from invisible wires, Joker grabbed the back of his collar and hoisted himself back up. "Oh, those Gerber greens are pretty as a penis, but you should've covered them up. You don't have a killer's eyes. Not like me. And not like the real Bat."

He grabbed hold of her wrist in a vice-like grip and jerked the pistol up against his head. Barbara's trigger finger was so numb she wouldn't have believed anyone who told her it was still there. "Never send a woman to do a Batman's job."

Barbara didn't feel the first blow. She felt the air leave her lungs and pain knot up her stomach, but it felt too fast and too strong to be a punch. It was more like being in a car accident. The punches didn't stop, or even seem to separate. She was tossed around like a poltergeist's plaything, a kite in a typhoon. She couldn't block, she couldn't thin, she couldn't fight back. Then the battering stopped.

Anyone present would've been amazed that Batgirl was standing, including Batgirl. Her mouth was full of blood, choking her, gagging her. She spat it out just as her cape was tugged like the proverbial short leash. Dragged across the ground while blood welled in her mouth, she had a coughing fit that speckled the marble floor with machine-gun patterns of crimson.

She was still sputtering when the Joker picked her up and flung her into the giant aquarium. Whatever quip he made was swallowed up by her hitting water. The sound was a rippling chain of detonations muted against her eardrums.

Her wet cape shrunk-wrapped her, shoving her down every time she tried to tread water. She could see the Joker through the panicked yellow swirling. His face was pressed up against the glass like an ugly schoolchild. Barbara kicked out at his death's-head grin. The glass buckled outward, knocking him on his ass. It also spider-webbed at her heel.

Apparently Cobblepot had cut corners on the construction. Batgirl was shocked and appalled.

She struck her leg out again. It rammed through the fissures, becoming stuck as the cracks spread. The Joker watched, moon-eyed, as the seemingly disembodied leg flexed and wriggled above him. Then the entire glass wall exploded, vomiting hundreds of gallons of water through cracked glass teeth. The dining area was flooded, the tidal wave sweeping up tables, chairs, and corpses. Cobblepot clung to a Plexiglas iceberg as his sanctuary was emptied out.

Batgirl got to her feet, looking more drowned rat than bat. The water came up to her knees, with chairs floating among the overturned tables. The dead men's blood was turning the water a deep wine color. Batgirl slogged around, trying to spot the Joker in the minefield of furniture. Wet hair got in her eyes, muddying her vision. The sound of tables and chairs colliding were gunshots deafening her.

A hand settled on her shoulder. It was white, with purple-painted fingernails. "This day has been _heck_ on my wardrobe."

Again the impossibly fast blow, the sudden pain. Batgirl was thrown down into the water and he scurried on top of her, holding her head down between his thighs, under the water. By the time he let her back up, her vision was darkening and her lungs were constricting.

"You've been a very naughty girl, staying out past curfew." He mockingly brushed a wet lick of hair from her eyes. "Papa will have to spank."

Batgirl spat a stream of chlorinated water directly into his eyes. He screeched and fell off her. Ran for the staircase that led out of the sunken dining area and toward the exit, his hands covering his eyes. "My face, my face! I'm melting, oh what a world, what a world! Et tu, Rosebud? Tell my wife I love her, tell my mistress I really love her, tell my kids to stay in drugs and don't do school, tell my knife she _is_ a ladle, and tell my optometrist…" He turned on the first step of the staircase to reveal his eyes were dark pits, eyeballs bobbing out on gallows-optic nerves to hang about his neck. "THANKS FOR NOTHING!"

Barbara almost screamed before realizing it was a ghastly version of these old spring-loaded space eyes, the kind of thing that might be advertised in the back of EC Comics.

Fake eyeballs waggling back his neck like a tail, the Joker made his getaway. Batgirl would've chased after him, really she would've, but then she heard sirens.

* * *

Dick jerked awake. "But, mom, I wanna stay home and bake cookies with you…"

The rude-awakening sound came again. It was curled fingers rapping on his car window. It all came back to him. He'd decided to pull guard duty on Babs and he must've fallen asleep and now… he grabbed the handle and rolled the window down. The very tall gentleman who'd been knocking stooped down. Dick went white as a sheet. He recognized that face. He'd seen it in Barbara's wallet and bedroom: Dad.

"Commissioner Gordon," Dick gasped, brushing _Xposed_ magazine off his passenger seat. "Hi. I've heard so much about you…"

"That right."

"On talk radio, I mean." Dick patted his car stereo lovingly. "You look good. Have you lost weight? Because I see you on TV and you definitely seem slimmer in person. But then, they say the camera adds ten pounds."

"Mind telling me your name?"

He gulped. "Dick Grayson, sir."

"Now mind telling me what you're doing here, Dick Grayson?"

"I was just out for a drive." Dick wrenched the steering wheel, smiling winningly, "when I noticed my eyelids were letting the light in, so I pulled over to check 'em for holes."

"Holey eyelids, Mr. Grayson?"

"Exactly."

Gordon lowered his glasses. "You look well-rested to me."

"And so I will be moving on." Dick buckled his seatbelt. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Gordon. Have a lovely day."

He drove off, never having noticed that Batgirl had climbed up the trellis of her house, slipped into her bedroom window, and changed out of her costume during the course of his conversation with her father.

Gordon watched the car peel out, bristling with suspicion. It was probably nothing. But just in case, he called in the plates and name.

* * *

Gordon breezed into the house, sorting through junk mail. Barbara was at the fridge, shoveling ice into a plastic bag. She wrapped it in a towel and pressed it to her face with a relieved groan.

"You alright, angel?"

"Oh, who, me?" Barbara hid her face behind the ice-pack. "I'm great. Dinah and I were just fooling around and I leaned into her punch. Oops."

"Here, let me see."

"No, dad, it's…" his fingers pried the ice away. "Looks worse than it is."

It was nasty, a purple bruised that covered her face like a large man's handprint. Gordon sighed and put the ice-pack back against it.

"You wouldn't hesitate to call 911 if something suspicious were going on, right?"

"Suspicious? Like what?"

Gordon kicked off his shoes and sagged into his favorite chair. "Found this punk kid lurking outside, name of, uh, Dick Grayson."

Barbara darkened. "Sounds like an idiot, alright."

"Real troublemaker, too. Juvie record for theft and assault…"

"Maybe he didn't start the fights," Babs reasoned.

"It's good to look for people's good sides, baby, but I'd still prefer that punks like that stay away from my family. Imagine what he'd do if he broke in and found you home alone."

Barbara blushed and hid it with the ice-pack. "I'd better go to bed before you give me nightmares. Night, daddy." She kissed the top of his graying head.

"Night, angel. And don't worry about the Dick Graysons of the world. You've got your good old D-A-D watching out for you."

Barbara started up the stairs, mentally composing her epistle to future generations.

_Dear Diary, today I got my ass kicked by Mojo the Clown, got my nice leather costume soaked, and then had to run home ahead of my father the police commissioner. But on the bright side, I managed to save the city's biggest crime boss._

Damnit, Batman, where are you?

* * *

Bruce laughed, screamed when he couldn't laugh, cried when he couldn't scream, laughed when he couldn't cry. Superman didn't have trouble holding him down. It was keeping from hurting him that was the hard part.

"His body can't take much more of this," he said, glancing at the Fortress's render of Bruce's physiology. "Going into cardiac arrest… synthesize another antidote, batch seventy-three. Reset acceptable parameters at minus twenty karatheons."

When Bruce touched his cheek, his hand was cold and clammy and utterly sane.

"Clark. Let me go. Let me go to my parents, I see them…"

Clark gently took the hand and put it back in the restraint. "Not yet, old friend."


	19. Daybreak

Bruce had thought he'd known the night. He thought he understood that it was vast and dark and cold. He had no idea.

The night was so large it stretched between stars, so dark that light was not just immaterial, but _denied._ So cold that he would never be warm again. No matter which beach he traveled to, no matter how many friends he swaddled himself with, no matter how advanced the armor he coated himself with… in Crime Alley, he would still be freezing.

"Don't be afraid," his father told him, and Bruce wanted to rage at the old man for lying and telling him there was nothing to be afraid of in the dark, but no matter how loud he screamed, his father would never answer.

He forced himself to center, center, center. The fear swelled up in him and he met it head-on, as Ra's had taught him ("My wife, the mother of my child, they killed her… whenever the mission becomes difficult, I remind myself that if they are not with me, they are with my wife's despoilers."), as Alfred had taught him ("So that we might better learn to pick ourselves up."), as Clark had taught him ("Truth and justice and the American way.").

He was in bed. There was a woman there, hovering over him, angelic.

"Mother?"

"Go back to sleep, dear. I don't want a peep out of you until your fever goes down."

_Clark, you know there's a naked human in here, right? Does that happen often around here?_

He's a friend. Leave him put.

He smells funny.

He's sick.

Eww.

"Supposedta go to school, big test…"

"It can wait until you're better. Here, look what I got from the video store."

"The Grey Ghost!"

_Now he's looking at me. And moving his lips. It's creepying me out._

Creeping. And I told you, stay clear of him.

What's his name, anyway?

Br—Batman.

Batman? Is that Italian?

It's not his real name. I'll explain later.

What's with all the bruises and scars? Are those part of his sickness?

I guess you could say that.—No, he gets them fighting crime.

Like a policeman?

Not quite.

Like you?

I suppose so.

He's following your example! See, I told you Earth could be redeemed!

"Thanks, Mom. You're the best."

"Rachel came by while you were sick. I told her you couldn't play, but you should try to give her a phone call to let her know you're alright."

"Okay."

"Now, you just stay in bed and watch your movie. I'll bring you up some chicken soup and Sprite."

_What's wrong with him, anyway? Can we get sick from it?_

No, it's a toxin. A man called the Joker injected him with it. I'm trying to find a cure.

Can I help?

Yes, of course. I'll upload the file to that terminal over there.

"Are you going to go to work?"

"No, dear, I'm staying home to look after you."

"You don't hafta. I feel great."

"Nonsense. It's my job. I'll always take care of you, Brucie."

"Mom…"

* * *

Bruce was staring up at the Aurora Borealis. It was blue as gunsmoke, twisting in and on itself, eating itself whole. Gave him a headache. Everything gave him a headache. He sat up to find that brought an immediate denial of balance. Falling back to his bed for the moment. It was warm, lived in. If it weren't for the pressure in his bladder, he would've stayed in it. Silver sheets, though. Weren't his. And whatever the pillows were full of, they weren't feathers.

He tried getting up again. It worked this time. He was naked, but he left the sheets behind. If someone attacked him, they could tangle. He did find a bathrobe on a nearby chair, as white as the rest of his surroundings. The film student in Bruce found it disturbingly Stanley Kubrick. He checked the bathrobe for bugs, then put it on. It fit him well, as well as an off-the-rack robe could. He checked the tag. Bed, Bath, and Beyond. Hunh.

There was a conversation at the back of his soundscape. Bruce wondered whether he should investigate as Bruce Wayne or as Batman… even a very unmasked Batman. He took nothing for granted, deciding to approach with a swagger that could be Bruce Wayne's after a long night on the town, but could turn lethal at a moment's notice.

One of the voices was Kal-El. Bruce would recognize it anywhere. He turned a corner and saw Kal swapping out crystals in the main console, apparently trying for some special combination. Above him, a holographic projection of an elderly man's head flickered.

"Father, tell me of Zod. Was he trying to stop Krypton from being destroyed?"

"That knowledge is numerated on the fourteenth crystal…"

Kal slammed it into the console. "Tell me!"

The hologram stopped flickering. "Ask your question, my son."

"Why was Zod trying to take over Krypton?"

"He hungered for power. He saw, as I did, that Krypton had become stagnant and hubristic under the weight of its own history. I wanted us to end our isolationism, explore the stars and help less advanced civilizations as you are aiding Earth. But his solution was to turn Krypton into a dictatorship."

"If he'd succeeded, would Krypton have survived?"

"Yes," Jor-El answered, immediately. Bruce winced. If it were Clark's real father, there might've been some hesitation, some softening of that harsh truth. Instead, all Clark had was a computer program.

"Then why didn't you help him!?" Clark demanded.

"Zod was a cancer, a corruption of healthy thought. If he ruled Krypton, his lust for dominance would've led him to conquer other worlds, enslaving their populations as he nearly did to Earth. Better a quick, clean death for Krypton than the death of all it stood for under his tyranny."

"You let Krypton die. You could've saved them and you _let them die!_"

"It was best that Krypton die, so long as its evils died with it. The Colu… information missing, corrupted data…"

Clark ripped the crystal from its socket and crushed it in his hand. The hologram died.

"I'm sorry you had to hear that, Bruce." Clark sagged against the console for a moment before gathering himself up. "But I'm glad you're awake."

Bruce stepped out of hiding. "It was a hard choice your father made. I… don't envy him that."

"He made the wrong choice. If there's life, there's hope. He gave up on Krypton. If it ever came down to it, I would always try to save people, no matter the risk."

Bruce's mind whipped through the obvious questions -- stupid questions, as it was obvious he'd been brought here so that Kal-El could find a cure for Joker's poison – and sifted through to the more important ones.

"Who was the girl?"

"What girl?" Kal-El rejoined, either playing dumb or actually being dumb, in his own Clark manner.

"There was a girl here. She was…" Bruce's lips went thin with recollection. "Pretty."

Clark scowled for a moment, but hid it well. "Bruce. Fortress of _Solitude_, remember? Your mind's playing tricks on you. Maybe you should get a girlfriend."

And unbidden, Talia jumped into Bruce's mind. She wasn't wearing any clothes this time. Bruce kneaded a hand into his forehead, ignoring Kal-El's wit/lack-of-same.

Kal-El, noting Bruce's wooziness, flew down to his level, although he floated over Bruce's head in what Bruce would call a peevish manner. "Bathroom's over there," he said, pointing. "I'll put on some coffee."

He went about doing that, flying to a very ordinary-looking kitchen set tucked away in the corner of the crystalline architecture. After finishing, Bruce came out of the restroom and tried to reach the Kryptonian. No easy doing on the uneven, cracked floor of the Fortress.

"Doesn't this place have chairs?"

"Huh? Oh. Just start to sit down, the Fortress will do the rest."

Bruce frowned, but decided Kal-El was too much of a straight-arrow to be pulling one over on a sick man, so he did. He descended into a perfectly comfortable chair that simply had not been there before. The whole thing was too clever by half. Maybe coffee would make it better.

Then Bruce saw Kal-El brewing, carefully proportioning coffee grounds into filters with a big red cape swaying behind him, and thought _no_.

"Where's my armor?"

"Alfred wanted it. Something about forensic evidence."

"You couldn't have asked him for another one?"

"One of your rules, apparently. Don't give out armor to strangers? Don't worry, the bathrobe brings out your eyes."

Bruce crossed his arms, tight. "How long have I been out?"

"Going on two days. I had to put you in stasis while I searched for a cure to the toxin. Speaking of which, I also found an unknown pathogen in your blood work. Have you been taking a lot of painkillers?"

"I thought you'd sworn this place off ever since your father's AI crashed."

Clark pursed his lips a little at Bruce's insensitivity. "Alfred sent one of your lookalikes to Aspen to ski, so the Bruce Wayne angle is covered. Honestly, it kind of freaks me out that you have lookalikes. Saddam Hussein had those, you know."

"Not all of us can get our inspiration from JFK and Pa Kent. And you've seen how the lookalikes can come in handy. After a while, they pay for themselves."

"You're saying I should build an android?" Superman asked whimsically.

"Believe me, one of you is enough." A table blossomed in front of Bruce, and Superman set down the coffee and a bowl of some orange liquid in front of him. "What is this? Some kind of Kryptonian healing elixir?"

"No, chicken soup."

Bruce took a tentative sip. "Not bad."

"Mom made it as soon as she heard. There's also a get-well pie in the fridge."

"You're in the Arctic Circle and you have a fridge?"

"Well, it's more of a miniaturization stasis chamber… thing." Whatever it was, Clark grabbed a pie pan out of it and cut himself a slice. "You mind?"

"Help yourself."

"I will; she's my mom." He cut another slice and served up a plate of piping hot apple pit to Bruce.

Bruce looked at it as if trying to gauge what kind of poisons would fit into a tender, flaky crust. Clark sardonically set down a fork on his plate.

With a huffing sigh, Bruce took a deep gulp of coffee. It was thick and black, just the way he liked it. He thanked the gods, Kryptonian and otherwise, that Clark hadn't poisoned it with cream and sugar and milk and whatever else he added to make it something that _wasn't_ coffee.

"I feel almost human," he commented.

Clark paused, a forkful of apple pie halfway to his lips. "Yeah. Me too."

The look in his eyes was so weirdly vulnerable that Bruce actually felt contrite. "Sorry."

"It's nothing."

Bruce dug his fork into the pie and took a bite. "It's good. Your mom's a good cook."

"Thanks. I'll tell her you said that."

Bruce pictured Martha Kent running around Kansas telling neighbors that Batman liked her apple pie. "Okay." He stood, taking another swallow of coffee. "Gotham."

"It hasn't exploded in your absence." Clark laughed in sarcastic disbelief. "I know, right? Who'd a thunk it?"

"Not. Funny." He repeated himself, infusing each syllable with even more gravitas. "**Gotham.**"

"It really is fine. Some crimes, yes, but what you'd expect from a major city. Although there was this streaker in East End wearing nothing but a sandwich board that said—"

"The Joker?"

Clark fell silent. "I know what it's like for someone to come into your home and take your peace of mind," Clark said at last.

Bruce looked up sharply. "The crystals…" He shook his head. "I don't see why you're worried. Even if Luthor could interface with them, he has no way to read Kryptonese."

"They're all that's left, Bruce. My heritage. My memory." He stared into Bruce, his prolonged gaze so intense that words like "inhuman," "alien," and "immortal" crept up the human's brainstem. "Surely you can understand that I need them back."

"We'll get them back. As soon as we find Luthor, I'll…"

Clark shook his head. "If I can't find him, you can't. It's like he's dropped off the face of the—" Superman paused, cocking his head. "One moment, there's a crime being committed."

Bruce had just one question: "Where?"

Superman reached deep into the console and pulled out a red phone handset.

"You have a phone?" Bruce said, dubious.

"It's no giant spotlight with an S on it, but I get by." He shook the handset patronizingly. "Hotline to the Metropolis police department. Relax, the satellite scrambles the signal."

"You have a satellite?"

Superman, who'd had a finger held up to stall him, hung up. "STAR Labs is being robbed. I have to go."

"And what about me?"

"There are ski-mobiles in the garage. Be sure to fill up the tank when you're done, you can afford it."

He took off, spiraling up, up, and away through the Fortress's oculus.

Bruce looked around at his alien surroundings. "Where's the garage?"

* * *

Breaking into STAR Labs had been easy. Lexcorp had made the security system and Mr. Luthor always left himself a backdoor. With impeccable authorization, they'd landed a prototype Lexcorp assault helicopter (reported stolen that morning) on the roof helipad and infiltrated the facility. One of the bigheads, Dr. Hamilton, was performing experiments on the Kryptonite to see if it was any good as a power source. Bad news was, Hamilton had added his own twist on security: A lead-lined vault. That's when the guns came out.

They all wore ski masks, duh, but John Corben recognized Mr. Blue from the acetylene-torch he wielded. Two edges of the thick safe door had been cut through. "Hurry it up, my trigger finger's itching."

"The fucker's thick, okay? Next time I'll pack some C4."

Hamilton and his three assistants were duct-taped in their office chairs. One of the male assistants had a goose egg rising where Corben had butt-stroked him.

Hamilton had a pretty fierce expression for an old guy. "You won't get away with this."

Corben calmly walked over to him, took the good doctor's glasses off, and crushed them in his hand. "Watch me. Blurrily."

The smell of melted metal was acid in his nostrils. With one last look at the safe to confirm three edges had been cut, he went to their perimeter room. It was a couple of floors above the sealed-off lobby, with windows looking out on the front of the building. The back was already covered by fields of experiments that the police couldn't get through.

Mr. Orange was setting up a rocket emplacement. Experimental anti-tank weaponry, fast reload, with variable rounds able to target both aircraft and land vehicles. He'd already used an air hammer to stake the legs into the ground, and pointed the barrel out the window. The targeting display was set up on the side of the peculiarly tarantula-like construction.

"Mr. Red, we got problems." Mr. Orange pointed to the LCD display. "SWAT van's here."

"Rocket emplacement set?"

"Locked and loaded."

"Then give 'em a taste."

Mr. Orange took careful aim and fired. It was as if a dragon had awakened. Flame erupted from the cannon, briefly resolved into a sabot round, then lost itself in the SWAT van's destruction. The armored vehicle came to rest on its side, smoke bleeding out a ragged hole on the top.

"Nice shooting," Corben said, watching the driver stop, drop, and roll. He patted Mr. Orange on the back and went back to check on the safe. Three edges cut. He smiled, heard his satellite phone trill. Twisted the knobs to scramble it and answered.

"Yessir?"

It was Luthor, not that anyone would ever recognize the voice. "Do you have it?"

"Just a matter of moments, sir."

"You don't have moments. NORAD just reported a supersonic object approaching Metropolis. The only thing standing between you and our country's penal system is in that vault. Get it done."

Corben hung up and tuned to Mr. Orange's frequency. "Load another round. Flying target."

* * *

Superman eased down from Mach 5, friction and wind chill combining to slightly disorient his senses. He dipped out of the stratosphere on the familiar approach to Metropolis. The trouble was easy to find. A black tongue of smoke was licking the purple sky, its root an overturned SWAT van. Superman dived like an eagle.

He heard the roar of a rocket attack; time slowed as his super-reflexes took over. The sabot which had been darting toward him now hung in the sky like an infant's mobile. He caught it, stared at it with one eye X-ray one eye heatvision, then pitched it back the way it came.

The dealt with, he landed on the SWAT van and ripped it open like a bag of microwave popcorn. The cops inside were injured, but their battle wagon's armor had spared them the brunt of it. He put out the fires with his Arctic breath and took a flying leap into STAR Labs.

Upright, he floated through the wall and windows like a wrecking ball. The rocket emplacement was crushed underfoot.

At the other end of the room, Mr. Orange laid doubled over, the sabot cradled in his stomach. His lungs were desperately trying to hold air.

"I disarmed the warhead," Kal-El explained. Then he tapped the man on the forehead. "Like so."

The man slumped into unconsciousness.

X-Ray vision pinpointed the hostages in the next room. One of the captors was standing next to the wall. Superman exploded through it, grabbing the man by the throat and thrusting his head into the ceiling. Mr. Green hung there, flailing.

Now there were two. One was opening a safe. The other had a gun to Dr. Hamilton's head. His voice was familiar. "Walk away or I waste him."

Superman's eyes flared. "With what?"

That's when Corben realized he was holding only the grip of his pistol. The slide was melted on the ground.

He threw the grip at Superman. It bounced harmlessly off his S-shield.

"You're new around here, aren't you?"

With a sputtering hiss, the blowtorch cut out. The safe door fell open, exposing the room to the deadly light of its contents. Superman staggered. It'd been six years since he'd felt that old wound flare up, but he could never forget the experience. It hit all seven of his senses – rotten meat in his nostrils, spots in his vision, a foul taste on his tongue, and pain burning across his skin.

Smiling his cat that ate the canary smile, Corben picked up the pistol grip.

"Let's try that again."

He fastballed it into Superman's gut. Kal-El doubled over as if he were about to vomit. Felt worse than Zod's Sunday punch. He hadn't taken a blow that bad since before his powers, playground fights with playground bullies. Playground was bigger, bullies stayed the same. And he still wanted Jonathan Kent to step in and make things better.

_Be strong, Clark_. That's what dad would've said. Superman charged, trying to remember how Bruce would fight like this. Corben swirled out of the day like a bullfighter. Superman slowed to a stop, the radiation severing every sinew in his legs. He slumped against the opposite wall like a man who'd just run a marathon. Even the texture of the wallpaper was torture to his enflamed senses.

At Corben's clipped military gesture, Mr. Blue picked up the Kryptonite and brought it closer. Hamilton and his people struggled to get free as the green light passed over them. They knew the radiation was harmless to them, but any one of them would've risked their lives to get it away from Superman, if only they could get free.

Snarling, Corben swept Superman's legs out from under him with a karate kick. Superman fell, a dizzying sensation, the complete antithesis of flight's freedom. He was out of control, plummeting, his senses ping-ponging between extremes until the floor hit him with enough force to break bone. Something dropped next to him. It was Corben's ski mask. Discarded. Like the wolf's sheep-clothes.

"I'm not sure that's such a good—" Mr. Blue began to say, but Corben cut him off.

"Just keep the Kryptonite on him."

Corben kicked Superman in the ribs, the force actually picking him up and sending him skidding across the linoleum floor. Superman grunted, a physical exhalation of pain that he wasn't sure was even in his vocabulary.

"Thief…" he said like it was the most dire insult in the world.

"A thief? Thieves take things that don't belong to them because they want money. I'm doing this because Luthor's right. You're a threat and you're going to be neutralized."

Superman stared into Corben's face, a glimmer of recognition at the center of his fading vision. "You were… at the park…"

Corben shut him up with a jab to the throat. "Yeah. You humiliated me. The big strong Kryptonian showed up the puny little Earthman with his super-special powers." He boxed Superman's ears, jerking him down to get a knee in the face. "Payback's a bitch, huh?"

Superman wiped a trickle of blood from his nose and tried to get to his feet. Corben literally slapped him down, leaving his ears ringing.

"You don't wanna kill me…" he said weakly.

Corben snatched the Kryptonite from Mr. Blue's hands. "I don't?"

"People… I save people." His voice descended into hysterical babbling, like his brain was deprived of oxygen, as Corben brought the Kryptonite closer. "If you kill me… I can't… please… let me…"

"Only the weak will die. Those of us who are strong enough to survive _will_. The way it should be."

Superman closed his eyes, the cruel words sparking a connection among his neurons. "Luthor."

Corben took the Kryptonite, grabbed Superman by his spit-curl, and pulled his face against the radiation. "You should've stayed gone. There's no place for you here anymore."

Pain. Torment. Agony. Words insufficient to describe the _death_ that trawled his skin, killing him from the outside in. It seeped into each pore, traveled along his jaw, blackening his skin and blinding him in his left eye. He could see the darkness spreading from left to right, wiping away the world like a drawing on a chalkboard that someone was finished with.

He reached deep into his vast reserve of strength, into his very soul, just to lift his arms. He shoved at Corben in an effort so pathetic he doubted it would have moved a tinker toy. But Corben backed up anyway, giving Kal-El some breathing room to fill with suffering.

Superman tried to rein in his poisoned senses, but his eyes zoomed in and out like a broken camera while his ears brought him snippets from a conversation in Baghdad one moment, then deafening white noise the next. He sounded out each word as he spoke. "There… are… witnesses…"

Corben glanced at the scientists. "Who, them? Soon as I'm done with you, they're not witnessing anything ever again."

Superman's heart stopped dead at those words. When it pumped again, the blood was pure and hot as molten metal. Corben came in, Kryptonite held high like an idol to some dark and pagan god. Its approach sent fresh waves of pain through Clark's nerves, but couldn't touch his steel heart.

He lunged, knocking the Kryptonite from Corben's hands. It slid to the middle of the room, offering Superman a little hard-won relief. He collapsed on top of Corben, pinning him to the ground. Corben roared in fury as he struggled. He managed to lift Superman up and almost dislodge him, but Superman dropped a hammer-blow of a punch on Corben's nose.

Mr. Blue rolled Superman off and helped Corben to his feet. "C'mon, Red, the cops are probably on the way up right now!"

Corben grabbed Mr. Blue's pistol as he shoved him away. "Not just yet…"

He racked the slide as he stomped back to roll Superman over with the steel toe of his boot. The gun lulled up on Superman's head like a bad moon rising.

"Bounce this off," Corben said, and Superman heard a sound of thunder.


	20. A Job For Superman

Corben jerked back with each shot that tore into his Kevlar vest, a boxer taking body blows from an invisible opponent.

"Stop or I'll shoot," Detective Maggie Sawyer of the Special Crimes Unit said from the doorway, her service pistol oozing smoke. "Damn, got it backwards again."

Mr. Blue returned fire with his back-up gun. Maggie took cover behind the doorway, which fractured but held against the low-caliber onslaught. Corben, his chest feeling like a baseball bat had been taken to it, ran for it. Crouched low to the ground, practically crawling at points, he scooped up the Kryptonite while Mr. Blue and Sawyer traded fire overhead. Finally, he made it to the stairwell and disappeared up the stairs.

Superman raised his head and let loose the new surge of power he felt in the Kryptonite's absence. A laser-thin beam of thermal energy leaked from his eyes and chiseled the trigger of Mr. Blue's gun.

The criminal's finger clicked on nothing as Maggie popped out from cover again, staggering him with a burst into his stomach. Mr. Blue vomited, his Kevlar probably keeping his injuries at a few cracked ribs. Maggie had him handcuffed before he could recover or even stop coughing.

She looked up from her straddle of Mr. Blue. "Hey, boy scout, how you holding up?"

Superman tried to raise, but couldn't manage it. "Yeah, I'm just really comfortable here. Go after that man, he's John Corben, Lexcorp's head of security…"

"No need for an APB just yet. There're cops all over this place, he's going no—"

The whine of helicopter rotors cut her off. Superman redoubled his efforts to get to his feet. It was like his heels were greased. The twitches of his antigravity organ slapped him back down to earth.

He felt a vampiric pain at his throat and realized it was Maggie taking his pulse. The look on her face was all she needed to say.

"I need sunlight, Lieutenant."

"It's Inspector now." She slipped his arm around the back of her neck. "On three, we're standing up, capiche?"

"Yeah."

"One, two, _three!_"

Kal-El put all his effort into pushing upward. Somehow, he got his feet under his body and found himself leaning unsteadily on Sawyer.

"Now, one foot in front of the other."

"I'm familiar with the concept."

Teetering, he made his way into the hallway and to the floor-to-ceiling window at the end. At one point, he stumbled and Maggie steadied him with a hand on his chest.

"You know, a lot of women would kill for this opportunity."

"I'm not one of them. You're not my type."

"Alien?"

"Male."

Superman sagged against the glass, now supported entirely by Maggie's strength. The sun had half-fallen below the horizon and ripened into a deep orange, a bloody wound in the purple bruise of an evening sky. Drawing energy from that was like trying to get blood from a stone. Still, he pressed his hand up against the glass to soak in all the red rays he could.

A second buzz joined the noise of Corben's helicopter starting up. A police helicopter. Its searchlight played over the two crimefighters as it flew over them.

"See? We've got things well in hand."

Clark's fingers steepled on the glass. "Why the world doesn't need Superman," he mumbled.

Above, the chopper pilot bellowed through a loudspeaker. "Civilian helicopter, power down and throw down your weapons."

Superman's hearing was still too deafened to hear the trigger being pulled or the electrical impulse traveling down the joystick. But it was just sharp enough to hear the missile take off and be subsumed in the roar of an explosion. Superman watched, stricken, as the police helicopter fell past the window in flames.

As soon as its fiery light had left him, he dove through the glass. Maggie cried his name as she reached for him, too late, his flapping cape disappearing over the edge.

Superman fell. The helicopter falling below him was burst open like an overheated tin can and wreathed in flames. But a life inside screamed to him.

Marshalling his power despite the bile rising in the back of his throat, Superman _slid_ forward. He speared right through the metal carcass, grabbing the pilot as he went, and saw the ground coiled below him like a fist. It hurt like hell, but Superman pulled up, every iota of his power seeming to tear him apart as he used it. But he felt the wind on his face shift and the ground turn into the horizon turned into the sky. He touched down feet-first, dropping the pilot, going head over heels as he lost his footing. He'd landed on STAR Labs' lawn, the grass so soft and so full of singing life. Superman closed his eyes, wanting nothing more than to listen to their song…

The malevolent drill of Corben's helicopter cut across his hearing. He opened his eyes. The cops had come to him, the paramedics surrounding the pilot. Superman let himself be helped to his feet and saw the helicopter disappearing into the distance.

He soaked in the embers of the dying sun. He was lifted off his feet, faltered back down to the ground, then shot up eight feet. Dan Turpin was below him, hopping up and down, trying to get to him.

"Don't be a suicide case, Blue! Go home, this isn't your job!"

Superman's telescopic vision picked out the helicopter making its getaway.

"Looks like it is."

* * *

Corben tapped his code into the keypad on the floor. After a moment, a latch popped. He slid the section of floor open to reveal the casing of the laser cannon. Flung open the casing to show a hollow with several rods to hold an item in place. He retracted the rods to make room for the Kryptonite.

"Something on radar!" the pilot yelled.

"Some people just don't know when to quit." Corben began calibrating the laser. "Blow him out of the sky."

* * *

Superman followed low to the ground, barely above the evening commute, flying at a speed that would have been lazy if he were at full power. Down here, the fumes of the diesel engines chafed his senses. The helicopter was trying to lose itself in Metropolis's skyline, flying among the skyscrapers to baffle radars and blend in to the civilian traffic. He tailed it over the Lakeview Mall, then took a deep breath as he felt his strength returning.

He thought of Jor-El, sending off his only son to Earth to uphold Krypton's legacy, so that billions of years of evolution, progress, and philosophy could live on.

He thought of Jonathan Kent, who'd shown him how to be the man who could pay tribute to Krypton.

He put on a burst of speed, accelerating into a supersonic blur and reappearing in front of the helicopter. It was a wasp-like craft, bristling with the harsh points of weaponry. An ugly, nasty weapon of an aircraft. Its wingtip thrusters swiveled forward to bring it to a stop. Superman crossed his arms confidently as he felt the high-tech targeting systems acquire him.

The nose-mounted 30-mm chain gun spun into life, thundering out rounds in less than a seconds. They seemed to slow to a crawl as Superman concentrated, but still swam in and out of focus… it rang bells in his head to try to think at this speed.

His hands blurred out to catch the bullets streaming towards him. Sparks flew off his hands, got under his fingernails. The heat was like taking something out of the stove with oven mitts on, but it was still more than he should feel. Flattened slugs fell away from his body in a waterfall of lead, landing on the plaza below him like the sand from an hourglass.

Narrowing his eyes, Superman focused his weakened heatvision on the chain gun. A few bullets slipped through, stinging at his chest like ant bites. But soon enough the chaingun had overheated, the barrels starting to run together as slag.

Superman's hands were bleeding. Flecks of lead were splintered under his fingernails and the whorls of his fingerprints were flooding with blood. He looked up at the helicopter with eyes still burning red and flew forward to put an end to the chaos.

A seven-barreled cannon under the wing puffed and a mortar wound burst against his chest. The effect was like hitting a home run into a normal man's stomach. Superman jerked backward, tried to regain control, ended up gliding upside-down into an office high-rise. His fall crushed a rubber plant.

The janitor watched him stagger to his feet.

"I should be running, shouldn't I?"

Superman tried to speak, but all that came out was a croak. So he just nodded. The janitor ran.

The hiss of rocket fuel igniting heralded it. The missile leapt forward from the chopper, right into a weak dose of heatvision that blew it apart. The shockwave broke every window for seven floors and knocked Superman on his back. He sprung right back up, though the rib the mortar had struck creaked like a plank under too much weight. He didn't even try to fly, he just ran forward and flung himself at the target.

A green laser crystallized in a giant needle hanging under the helicopter like a stinger. Even before it struck him, Superman felt like his bones had been set on fire. Then it splashed across his body and every molecule screamed in agony. Even its ending was pain, like the jolt of an electric chair. He fell.

He felt nothing. Not the wind rushing by his face, not the helicopter grinding above him. But he knew he would feel this.

With the last of his strength, Superman plunged his fist through the glass window he was falling past.

The glass chipped, splintered, shattered against his hand as he held on. It wasn't just breaking the skin anymore. It was tearing right through it. At last his hand hit the bottom of the window frame. The pain didn't stop. Superman looked, saw jagged glass shards embedded in his hand.

He tried to get his other hand up to grab the ledge, but there was more shattered glass on the floor. He steeled himself and put his hand firmly down. Secure, he hung there. Saw his reflection in the window he was hanging in front of. The laser had burnt a hole clear through his suit, exposing a blistered expanse of his chest. The world-famous S-shield was scorched and defaced.

Now he felt the wind coming back to him, across his face and hitting his wounds like whiplashes. It wasn't just the high altitude. It was the helicopter coming in closer, its rotors as loud as a thousand chainsaws. He had time to see the rotors buzzing closer before he squeezed his eyes shut.

Pain erupted in his side, the stench of his own burning flesh filling his nostrils as sparks jumped from the point of contact. His cape was hacked through, his blood sprayed out in a single cleaving ejaculation. The helicopter pulled back. Superman opened his eyes. The cut was deep, with blood pouring down over his belt to run down his leg.

Blood, stuck to the helicopter rotors, was being flung outward with each rotation. It speckled Clark's body, bringing him back to himself. He asked a little more. The sun couldn't save him now, but the Earth was still here. Home, mother, protector and sanctuary. _Give me something now, just enough to bring this man who has harmed his own kind to justice. Just that much._

He didn't know if anyone or anything was listening. He didn't know if anyone cared. But he felt new strength welling up in him.

The helicopter floated closer, its rotors hungry for his blood.

He kicked off the building and flung himself toward it. He was still above the rotors, but the tiniest spark of power made him blur forward in mid-air, in-between the slow and cumbersome rotors, to slam into the helicopter's nose. It wasn't graceful, it wasn't awe-inspiring, but he was hanging onto the cockpit, his set face reflected in the windshield.

He raised one fists, studded with glass fragments, and brought it down on the windshield. Glass flew from his hand and spider-webbed at the end of his knuckles. Corben shoved his gun over the pilot's shoulder and right at Superman. The pilot had time to start the syllable of his objection, then the gun roared.

The windshield exploded like firecrackers going off, chips bouncing around the cockpit. Bullets whizzed by Superman's head, singeing his hair. He punched through the weakened glass and his fist cut off the pilot's scream. The helicopter veered hard to the side. Superman rolled off the nose. He grabbed for a handhold on the cockpit, and this time his impenetrable fingers crunched through the glass. Corben rapped his knuckles with the butt of his pistol. Superman dropped, grabbed onto the landing skid.

Corben shouted to be heard over the wind whistling through the cabin. "Go low! Scrape him off!"

The helicopter dipped, descent flattening Superman toward the fuselage. He tried to lock his ankle around the skid, but the chopper leveled off and knocked his legs back down. Now the helicopter was just above traffic.

"The power lines, aim for the power lines!"

Superman looked back over his shoulder to see stiletto-wire power lines strung up across the next intersection. If he hit them, he'd have a short life as a conduit before he died from electrocution. Superman swung his legs , trying to build up enough of an arc to get a foothold. With a migraine-level application of flight, he was able to get his legs wrapped around the strut. His cape brushed the power lines as they passed underneath. It burst into flame.

"Climb! Maybe the fall will kill him!" Corben ordered as he threw the helicopter's side-door open.

Before he could toss off a villainous monologue or whatever he planned, Superman grabbed his bootstraps and pulled. Corben landed on his back, started kicking at Superman's hand. Superman pulled him halfway out of the helicopter. He grabbed onto the Kryptonite's case as Kal-El dragged himself up on top of Corben. Pain coursed through the merc's brain as Corben realized Superman had started punching him.

"Dump us!" Corben shouted between right hooks.

The helicopter obligingly tilted sideways. Superman felt a very un-super lurch in his gut as he and Corben went airborne, toppling out the helicopter. Then Superman felt like a bug against a windshield. They'd landed on a skyscraper roof, still rolling, every revolution seeming to jar one of Superman's bones an inch out of where it should be. Finally he came to a rest, and took his first deep breath in an eternity.

Corben's boot scythed into his midsection, detonating an explosion of agony. Superman rolled again, this time onto his face to breathe in concrete. Then his cape was drawn up, choking him like a leash. Corben was dragging him toward the edge while spouting Luthor's bigoted rhetoric like a true demagogue. Superman tuned it out to dig his fingers into the rooftop.

* * *

Lois could already see Superman's plight on her iPhone's streaming video, so there was no point in going to the scene. Jimmy was already saying so as they sat in traffic. The real story was back at STAR Labs, where the whole thing had started. But seeing Superman hit by that laser had aroused in her a protective instinct she hadn't felt since Jason was an infant. She'd even agreed to let Jimmy drive her prized Lexus while she rode shotgun, glued to the scattered footage of Superman's fight.

When he hit the rooftop, she kicked off her heels, got out of the car, and ran.

* * *

Corben dropped Superman onto the parapet like it was an execution block, Then, panting, he saw down on the parapet beside Superman. The helicopter hovered malignantly nearby, like the wasp about to sting you.

"Nothing personal. Okay, a lot personal." Corben punched Superman behind the ear to demonstrate. "But this is what has to happen to the bait in a trap."

"What?"

Corben pulled a phone from his jacket pocket and pressed speed-dial. Then he jammed the mobile so hard into Superman's ear that the dial tone deafened him.

"Hello, Superman. Guess who this is."

"_Luthor._."

"Right in one." Lex's tone was the chipper, friendly one he'd cultivated since getting out of prison, the harmless philanthropist voice. Hearing that avuncular voice threatening him was like Batman interrogating a suspect as 'Brucie'… as insane as it was frightening. "Just calling to tell you goodbye. Wish I could see you go in person, but HD-TV will have to do. Any last words you'd like me to pass on to your pet reporter, Louis or whatever?"

Superman clamped down on his lower jaw. "You can kill me, but those who believe as I do will never stop fighting the likes of you."

"A bit long-winded," Lex chided. "I would've gone with something pithy, but moving. If it's any consolation, Kryptonian, your death won't be in vain. With you dead, there'll be nothing to stop my plan from coming to fruition. And with the knowledge I gain from that, I'll be able to lead the world into a golden age of peace and prosperity."

Superman chuckled wearily. "World domination? Is that the only thing that will satisfy your sick ambition?"

There was a long pause. Then the verbal equivalent of a shrug. "It's worth a shot. But hey," Lex's voice wheeled vicious. "You're one to talk about discontent. Loved and adored the whole world over and you still skip out to Krypton for half a decade. Still, your little vacation gave me the freedom to put all this in motion, so I can't complain. It's that strong sentimental streak in you, Superman. It makes you weak."

"It separates me from monsters like you."

"Like I said: weak. Put Corben on the line."

Fatalistically amused, Superman looked up at Corben. "He wants to talk to you."

Corben lifted the phone to his ear, listened – "uh-huh" – and hung up. "He wants you to suffer. Some days, I love my job." He held down the transmit button on his radio. "Strafing run."

The K-laser sliced open the night to reveal emerald hellfire. It struck the other end of the roof and scalpeled across to Superman. Kal-El's guts churned faster the closer it got. He looked over the edge of the parapet. At this height, in his condition… but it beat the alternative.

_Down, down, and away,_ he thought before throwing himself over the side.

* * *

The whole way through, Lois didn't know what her plan was. Get to the building, climb forty stories, then save Superman from an armed gunman? It was only Plan A because Plan B was watch Superman die. So no, she didn't know what her plan was. What she did know what was losing him would feel like. It would be like dying herself.

She was just running down the sidewalk outside the building when a gestalt-noise of fright pulsed through the crowd, the human herd holding its breath. Lois looked up to see Superman toppling down.

Maybe it was a desperate plan to catch him. Maybe she was just paralyzed. But Lois stood fast, and no matter how fast the Earth spun, she couldn't be moved.

* * *

Superman started out his fall in a tailspin. A flagpole had knocked him into it. Then he saw Lois. Spun more. Earth. Sky. Lois. He straightened out, using his cape to guide his fall. It _was_ Lois!

He had to do more. He reached out for more power, form the sun, from mother Earth, and even from Lois. She was the only one that gave freely, and through her came the blessings of his adopted home. But something was wrong on a metaphysical level. The energy felt tainted… or like something he had no right too. Had he been gone for so long that the Earth had rejected him? Or was it something to do with Lois?

Despite her unfamiliarity with the contact, Lois intuitively knew what he needed and gave all she had, but for a kernel of doubt coiled deep inside her. The taint. The reason she couldn't give herself to him, despite Clark never needing someone so desperately in his life. He looked for its source and found it on a ring around Lois's third finger. The taint had a name. It was Richard.

He stopped, in physical space just feet above her, sharing the same breath; metaphysically, miles away. Rejection and scorn filled him with a tenebrific energy as potent as the sun's rays. She was looking up at him, and he couldn't bear eye contact. Not when he knew what was behind those green eyes.

He didn't fly toward the roof. He pushed himself away from Lois, tearing through the sound barrier with a messy boom. In his rage he smashed through the parapet to hover above the roof. Corben was climbing back into the helicopter. Superman gave him a heatvision hotfoot to speed him along his way.

The mercenary threw himself into the cabin and kicked off his smoking boots. "What're you waiting for!? Shoot him!"

Before a finger could even touch a trigger, Superman had zipped to the left of the helicopter and blown some turbulence its way. The helicopter swung to target him and Superman flew by its tail rotor, his wake buffeting it.

"Fire into the buildings! See if that sits right with him," Corben ordered.

The chaingun thundered. Superman flew abreast of the gunfire, unleashing his heatvision with the scope of a solar flare. The bullets melted before they could even chip the paint.

The laser cannon whirred as it aimed, fired. Superman circled the stream of lead, dodging the Kryptonite-focused light but still frying the bullets. Then the helicopter fired a missile. Superman circled further, but the missile homed in. Before he could compensate, it had detonated. The explosion dropkicked Superman through the building, his world becoming one of rapidly shattering walls, windows, and cubicles. He burst out the other end with strips flayed from the arm of his uniform.

The helicopter turned the corner of the building a moment later, laser blazing. Superman dropped like a stone to get under the beam and the laser dropped with him like a guillotine blade. He pulled up at the last second, the laser slagging his boot leather, and plowed through the backdoor. Out of the poison of the laser's radiation, he put on a burst of speed and flew out the lobby into the street.

The melted bullets had rained into a pool of molten lead stretching for the gutters. Superman cooled it with a single breath, solidifying it into an oblong plate. He scraped it off the asphalt in the same instant the chopper rounded the building. There was humming like a hundred angry beehives as the laser struck. But this time Superman was ready. He held the lead up like a shield and the laser crashed against it, melting into the metal like a snowflake on a hot skillet.

Kal-El coiled his legs and leapt, charging for the sound of the rotors. He butted the chopper, caving its nose in, then lifted his arm over the radius of the shield. The rotor blades broke against his skin. They also drew a slender line of blood that Clark tried to block out.

The helicopter stopped firing. Stopped flying, too. It wibbled back and forth, right to left, trying to stay level on shredded wings. For a few moments. Superman hovered over to the cabin, ripping the side-door open and stabilizing the chopper with a firm hand.

Inside the chopper, Corben stared at him, queasy, bloodied from a gash on his head, his eyes drawn. Superman stared back.

"I'm not your enemy," he said. "If you could just get past your fear, your hatred, you'd see… you people need to stop being afraid all the time."

"You people," Corben sneered. He threw open the lead casing of the laser, letting the Kryptonite out to play.

Superman doubled over in mid-air, stricken, letting go of the helicopter. It instantly pinwheeled forward, toward a skyscraper under construction.

Superman tumbled, slowly, end over end backwards, his flight ability instinctively propelling him away from the poison. Even the minute exposure was like a gutpunch. He righted himself, his guts still clenched up like there was a fist squeezing them, and against every iota of self-preservation in his body flew after the venomous helicopter.

It crashed through a crane arm, severing a line holding up a load of I-beams. Superman flew down too quick to land safely, instead splitting the road where he landed. On his way down he caught an I-beam, then used it to balance the others on like so many Lincoln Logs. To an observer, it might've looked like he was playing Jenga in reverse. With all of the beams caught, he froze them together and tossed them back into the construction yard.

The next obstacle in the helicopter's path was a skyscraper, one fully populated. Superman flew up and used his superbreath to blow the helicopter off-course. Always keeping his distance, he flew under it to keep it in the air, subtly maneuvering it right and left until it had reached Hobb's River. He flew up again, closer than he had dared before, close enough to feel the Kryptonite sapping his strength again.

"Close it!" he shouted. "I can still save you."

Corben's only answer was to lift his sidearm and empty the clip into Superman's chest. The physical pain was nothing compared to the inner angst Clark felt at such… nihilism. He pulled back, chest throbbing, as the helicopter slanted down to hit the water.

The rotors hit first, jagged edges catching the surface, wrenching the helicopter up and around and seemingly in every direction. Superman heard Corben's scream, an involuntary expression of complete terror that was ripped from his lungs. Then the helicopter, already shorn of its skin by the initial jolt, hit the water full-on. The splash was almost comically small; just thick white waves kicked up by the impact.

Minutes passed while Superman stood there, watching the helicopter vanish ghost-like beneath the waves, a telltale flash of green preventing him from coming any closer. He looked inhuman, to the cameras that turned his way, like a harbinger of death looming over his next villain. Then Corben bobbed to the surface, to be corralled by the River Patrol boats that buzzed about, shining their spotlights on him. Dragged out of the roiling waters, he looked up balefully.

Superman, implacable, flew away. He didn't need his nightly vigil over Lois Lane to complete the iron maiden of his emotions. He was an alien, unloved in some quarters, despised in many, but trusted in none. They would always be wary of him because, as Lex said, as Bruce said…

It was the smart thing to do.


	21. Cat Got Your Tongue?

It was a sunny day when Bruce Wayne returned to Gotham. He disembarked from his jet long enough to walk to his helicopter, and for a couple dozen pictures to be taken of him. Then he was sped along to Wayne Manor. Alfred was waiting at the rooftop helipad with tea and crumpets. To the butler's sorrow, Bruce took the mug of hot coffee. It was only after he'd finished with the first sip that he noticed the yellow-outlined Bat symbol on the black mug. He pointed at it.

"Allow me my small pleasures, sir," Alfred said. "I saw it in a curio shop and I just couldn't resist."

Bruce reluctantly drank from it. "Coffee's good."

"That it is, Master Wayne. Will there be anything else?"

Bruce, who was already shielding his eyes, walked out of the sunlight and into the mansion. He loosened his tie, took off his jacket. "No, I don't think so."

"Well then, perhaps I should tell you Miss Talia is being released from the hospital today, and seeing as you're her friend, perhaps you should be on hand to give her a warm welcome…"

Bruce turned around to Alfred, who was casually seeing the tea tray down on a hall table. "We barely know each other, Alfred."

"You do have time to change that, Master Bruce. She seems like a nice girl. And ever since Miss Dawes left…"

"Stop," Bruce's voice was quiet, but loud enough. "I don't have time for this."

* * *

"Considering the last vehicle I loaned you was a tank, I'm a little at a loss as to how you could need a new one," Lucius said, walking with Bruce through the Warehouse, the garage for abandoned prototypes. Most were under cloth, but a few were being tinkered with, toolboxes open, hoods propped up.

"I was hoping for something with a little better gas mileage. And more maneuverable. Smaller profile. More weapons."

"Anything else?"

"One of those cupholders with the little wings so it can hold both a Big Gulp and a medium latte?"

Lucius thought about it, took a right turn. "Well, I can't say it has a cupholder, but I think this might work." He pulled off one of the sheets.

Bruce smiled. "Wrap it up. I'll take it."

* * *

The Oldsmobile was right where Alfred had said he'd leave it. Bruce slipped inside, letting the mirrored windows render him invisible, and touched up his disguise with the kit in the glovebox. He drove.

On the outside the Oldsmobile was all rust, but inside it could get him out of there in a hurry. His disguise took care of the rest. Sunglasses, mustache, and the name he'd had the Wonder Boys put out on feelers all week. Matches Malone, big-shot

He reached Club Pussycat in high spirits and the appearance of drunkenness. It was several blocks from the other club, but a world away. The club had a neon sign that winked "cat" at passersby, with curtained windows that let out kaleidoscopic lights at the corners. Red, blue, green, crazily. It turned the doorman into a statue of ruby, sapphire, emerald. He let Bruce in for a C-note.

The place was _loud_ with Kid Rock music blaring from ill-concealed speakers and snippets of other songs – Barry White, voulez-vous couchez avec moi, a lullaby – wandering out of closed doors. Smoke wafted over him like a second ceiling, miraculously not triggering the sprinklers. Bruce doubted the sprinkler system would pass the fire code at any rate. The lightning, despite its forceful multi-colored glow, was almost dim enough to hide the wrinkles on the strippers, the tracks marks like tiny mouths. Spotlights and disco balls provided the steadiest illumination, spotlights roaming to hit a waitress or pole dancer and reveal a thigh, breast, butt.

He lit a cigarette, coughed on it slightly, adding to the shifting morass about their heads. It was a sandstorm by the time he strutted to the bar. The one sanctuary of noiselessness in the din was dirty and wooden, with bottles of rotgut lining the shelves. Bruce leaned on the bar. The bartender was a big man with a formidable gut under his leather vest, and an even more formidable number of tattoos, as well as piercings in all the usual places.

Acoustics let his voice escape the pounding music. "Hello, I'm slumming it." He lifted his arm to find an unidentifiable fluid had soaked his sleeve. "Really slumming it." He gave a practiced smile. "You know how sometimes you want a girl by name? Not a specific one, just one named something right? A busty blonde named Jessica or a dirty nasty freak named Betty? Well, I'm looking for a Selina."

"You can call me anything you like, handsome," said a teen girl in a too-tight tubetop and too-short leather miniskirt as she got way too close.

A leather-gloved hand reached in and twisted the girl's ear, dragging her off Bruce. "Lay off the man, Holly, can't you see he's trying to buy me a drink?" Bruce followed the glove up a surprising muscular arm to a shoulder to a face hidden behind a gimp-like half-mask, cat ears protruding from the top in a touch of whimsy, full lips twisted in an appraising smile. They parted moistly: "I'm Selina."

"You certainly are." He plucked her hand from Holly's ear to kiss it through the leather. "What was that about me buying you a drink?"

"White Russian, heavy on the cream." She lightly scratched Holly's cheek. There were short claws coming out of the tips of her gloved fingers. They left tattered strips of white skin. "Scram, kitten, momma and poppa need to talk."

"Promise to tell me how it goes?"

Selina looked Bruce up and down. "If there's anything to talk about."

"Oh, I think I can just about guarantee that."

She led him by the forearm, her claws cutting through his shirtsleeve, into a room that might be called the champagne room, but in reality was closer to a Bud Light room. It was about the size of a walk-in closet, with a couch built into the wall at one end of the room and a brass pole at the other. In the middle, opposite the door, was an midget jukebox on a shelf.

Bruce noticed other things, like a showerhead, a mirrored ceiling, D-rings on the walls and floors, and crumpled tissues swept into a corner. The wall socket had one plug filled by an air freshener, the other by the jukebox's extension cord. Selina turned the volume dial high enough to drown the outside noise, then looked at Bruce.

"Any requests?"

Bruce was taking off his jacket. "Well, I've always been partial to…"

She shoved him down onto the couch. "Good." By touch, she found the right key. _Cat Scratch Fever_ began billowing out of the speakers… and straight into Selina's body by the way she undulated preternaturally. The tears in her leather pants let the light in; daggers of light reflected off bared thigh, shorn pubis.

"You have a thing for cats?" Bruce asked.

Her push-up bra melted like quicksilver on her flexing, flowing upper body. "Everyone has a thing for something. Some cats, some dogs… and at least one guy's partial to bats." She planted a boot on the seat cushion, between his legs, rolled up her shredded pantleg to reveal it was a thigh-high. "Little help?"

He began undoing it. Slowly slipping it down her leg, watching every inch of flesh and finding it smooth as polished marble. "So, what's it like being an exotic dancer?"

She laughed, thick, throaty. "What's it like being a billionaire playboy?"

Bruce smiled at the recognition of his net worth. He'd have to work harder on the disguise. "Very rewarding." He slipped her boot all the way off and held her foot in his hands. It was surprisingly petite, a ballerina's foot, made for a glass slipper. He rubbed it like Gilda did for Harvey at the end of a long day. "What's it like being a stripper, Miss Kyle?"

She pushed him back with her toes on his forehead, not quite a kick… "Not so rewarding." But she gave him her other leg.

"Tell me about the men."

"Those Gossip Gerty stories hitting a little close to home, eh?"

Her second boot joined her first on the floor. "Just wanting to know how I stack up."

"You're so nice, you're so sensitive, you're the most feminist man I've ever stripped for," she said in dull monotone. "That what you want to hear?"

He pulled her down by the leg into his lap. "Fine. The direct approach. You ever dance for anyone named Jack?"

"What, you afraid your boyfriend's cheating on you?" When his stare remained Eastwood-cold, a smile grew on Selina's face like something planted long ago and finally bearing fruit. "Does he like to play rough too, Brucie?"

"Caucasian male, twenty to forty. _Jack._"

She sunk her claws slowly into his chest, dotting his shirt burgundy around the perforations. "Lotta guys named Jack. It's a common name."

"This one would be mean. A bad seed. Likes to hurt people."

"Like you?"

He grabbed her wrists and wrenched her hands into the air between them. His blood sparkled on her claws. "It's important."

"Was a guy. Jack Napier. Torpedo with the Falcone family, back when that meant something. Liked to hurt the girls and paid enough that Sal didn't mind. I had a talk with him." She flexed her claws.

"But you never danced for him?"

"Never this close." She brought her claws up to cut thinly into the cup of her bra and the swell of her breast. "Jealous?"

"What about an actual client, someone you personally knew?"

"No one worth knowing."

He pulled a five-hundred bill from his wallet and spiked it on her claws. "Think hard."

She puddled in his lap and reclined chest like a lethargic cat. "There was one. Jack Kinison, I think his name was? Said he was a comedian, but he never made me laugh. Liked to unwind with me after a long day at the chemical plant. But there was always something off about him. It was a relief when he stopped coming by."

"What do you mean 'off'?"

"He had a darkness in him. Like you have. Like I have." She kissed him then, hot and slow and so good that Bruce could forget… everything.

Then everything started to feel wrong. Her tongue felt like a foreign invader in his mouth, foul, nauseating. He pushed her back.

"Why?" Selina asked, expectant in her disappointment.

"Because you're not her."

He stumbled out of the private room, regaining more of his equilibrium the further he got from that woman. With distance came rationalization. The sudden, alarming physical need to distance himself from her had been him, of course, completely rational, and his distaste for the entire misogynistic proceeding. That was all.


	22. Survival

Usually Superman felt a pleasant wind-chill when he flew, but now he felt sweaty, overheated, like he was a powerless youth, Kansas summer, parked car with no AC… he'd lost his train of thought. He _never_ lost his train of…

Superman reeled drunkenly to one side. There was definitely something wrong, some pressure or vacuum in his gut steering him wrong. The Kryptonite. He'd been exposed too long, it had irradiated him, his uniform. He had to get up out of Earth's shadow and into the sunlight that would melt the ice numbing his veins.

But when he tried, he paid for it. Nausea overwhelmed him and Superman went into a brief tailspin before righting himself. He was slowing down too, that was why his wind-chill wasn't cooling him.

Wearily, Superman divined North from the lay of the land and slogged through the air toward the Fortress. He doused himself with the rainwater in thick dark clouds, trying to stay awake. He had to keep going. He had to keep doing.

* * *

Clark knew he was going to fall. His mind kept wandering to people he'd known, knew, and every time he returned he found that he had dipped a little, like the ground was jumping closer. Snatching at him. A new memory grabbed him, his last night with Lois, and in an instant he was _trying to explain, all over again, how they could never be together, but there were no words in English or Kryptonese and it was so much easier to just taste the wine and her lips and let the waiting stars burn above them for another night_ he brushed the snowy tops of an Arctic forest, leaving clumps of snow on his hair and face.

The chill was fleeting; his speed stripped the moisture away. There was no way he could make it, not when he was only now reaching the checkerboard of ice and brackish-green water. He called upon his indomitable will once more, ignoring the fantasy his muddled brain spun up for _breakfast on the Kent farm, eggs and bacon, hash browns and hotcakes, his father reading the morning paper and Chloe riding up on her tassel-handled bike to tell him to_ "Pull it together, Clark. Superman. Kal-El." He ran out of names for himself before he reached husband.

He ignored the vertigo, ignored the flashbacks, ignored even the burning blood seeping from his reopened wounds. The stark blue of the sky turned dark once he was past the clouds, and his nausea overwhelmed him. He vomited until it felt like his entire body was leaving through his mouth, then he kept going up. The false black gave way to light, the colorful swirls of distant nebulas, the slow-motion avalanche of asteroid fields – his perspective was skewed, bringing the entire solar system into too-bright focus – and the stars. They didn't sparkle, not without their atmospheric veil, and thy weren't all white. They were blue, green, yellow… red.

Summoning up his last reserves, Superman gave himself one last pathetic nudge and then began to fall. And roast. The heat of his re-entry ate at his costume, scorched his skin. The pain was hellish, and when he finally blacked out, it came as a relief.

* * *

Kara was thinking up ways to tell Kal that she had learned to levitate when she heard the explosion. Perhaps she would call him in to retrieve something from a high shelf, then fly up to get it herself. Then Kal would embrace her and tell her he was proud of her and make her his partner and it would be oh, so good.

Then the Fortress shook so hard that the crystals clinked together and icy stalactites clattered down from the ceiling. It was so loud that it reminded her of Krypton's destruction, the first inexplicable cracking that had split Argo City in two. Although levitation was still strenuous, she had become an old hand at superspeed. A half-second brought her to a vantage point atop one of the Fortress's crystal spires.

From her skyscraper perch, she could see a plume of ice and snow several miles away, punching upward like one of the sapphire geysers of the southern continent. If there still were a southern continent. If there still was a Krypton.

She shook her head decisively. What would Kal say about her sulkiness? Someone needed help!

She sped off and hit a slight… speed-bump. Not literally, of course, it was just that she had yet to master the delicate art of applying precise amounts of superspeed, super-strength, and hovering to run over the icefields, which was so finicky that anyone with a choice would choose to fly. Kara ended up flopping down on her belly and traveling the last half-mile like a bobsledder, laughing at her own clumsiness until she came to the smoldering crater and saw the blood smeared down the sides.

"Kal?" She poked her head over the side. "Cousin Kal?"

Superman laid there in an almost comically abstract pose. He was half-in, half-out of the melted pool of ice; his body was already lightly frosted with snow, and the limbs were weirdly folded about himself like a pretzel that'd been half-unraveled. The sheer inorganic artlessness of his lying struck her as frightening, and when she saw his toes poking through a hole in his boot Kara giggled hysterically. At least he was still alive; he turned his head slightly toward the sound of her.

_Think. **Think**. He's not moving. Need to get help. Wait… I **am** the help! Okay, okay, think **harder**. He might have a spinal injury, so I can't… no, yellow sunlight lets you regenerate. Right? There's light here, why isn't he—needs more of it. A lot more. The sun room, that's what it's there for!_

The sun room, as Clark had shown her, was for those occasions when a Kryptonian's power was completely depleted. It worked on the opposite principle as the depowering bombardment of red-sun radiation, saturating the body with sunlight so intense that it would burn your average human to a crisp. And it looked to be just the thing for Clark.

She leapt down, picked Kal up… felt the horrible slipperiness of his blood against her body… and pulled him toward the Fortress. It was slow-going until she figured out that she could use the ice field to just slid him alongside her.

Inside, through the hallways and through the open space of the core and then… _damnit, which door was it?_ And, surprisingly, the answer leapt to her mind like a data file requested by a computer. Kal had told her which door it was, days ago, and she remembered effortlessly. She dragged him down it, thankful that she couldn't hear bones breaking but horrified at the weird _sloshing_ she heard when she stretched her sense of hearing out… was that normal? The blood in his veins, digestive fluid, some other bile… _what was it?_

Finally she saw it, a circle of megalithic crystals cloistered off from the walls in defiance of the usual liveliness of the Fortress. The standing stones were bright yellow and humming with the power stored in them from the oculus. Even now a waterfall of light was shooting down from the skylight, slashing through the dim space. Kara pulled Kal into the enclosure and was shocked at the discomfort of the intense light.

It was heavy enough to make her skin hurt, an entirely new sensation for a girl who had lived all of her eighteen years beneath the careful filtration of Krypton's atmosphere. She wanted to stop, take stock of it, figure out a response, most of all _get clear_, but she was single-minded enough to disregard that. Kal's head was flopping around weirdly, like he was trying to lift his head while motion jerked him around, and trying to say something.

She couldn't understand it, a garbled mix of Kryptonese and English and vomitous noises, so she smiled and made a motherly cooing noise as she tore off what was left of his clothing. Kara didn't linger long over his body; not even the shadow of his crotch held enough prurient interest to overcome her revulsion at the bruises that haunted his body. Kara backed off, leaving him lying in a spreading layer of his blood, and ordered the circle to close into a dome. As light was unleashed inside like a galaxy being born, wiping out even his silhouette from the glassy walls, Kara realized she was holding onto his shredded clothes like they were a security blanket.

The realization didn't make her let them go.

"Don't worry, cousin Kal," she said with a hand against the warm glass. "I'll handle this."

* * *

Bruce sat in his throne. It was a cast-iron monstrosity that had been decorating one of the upstairs bedrooms until he had brought it down to the cave. It added to the ambience, made him feel like the Bat even now when he sat in it wearing a dark wool suit.

Two pictures swam above him. One was an old news photograph announcing the wedding of Jack Kinison to Grace Lovitz. The groom's smile was small and reedy. The other was a mugshot of Jack Napier. His features were set in a stone-cold scowl. Their faces, grayscale, were staring down at Bruce like twin moons when Alfred brought him dinner.

"Later, Alfred."

"You said _that_ forty-five minutes ago. Am I to assume that since the criminal underworld has proven insufficient to your self-destruction, you'll be giving starvation a crack at you?"

"I can't be distracted right now."

"Of course, sir." Alfred dropped the tray roughly on a table. "Shall I start a saline drip? Perhaps a catheter?"

Bruce gestured impatiently to the screen. "Look! One of those two men is the Joker!"

"You look! This is a rare steak, as per your request, and I spent all day cooking it to perfection. What difference does it make who your clown was, anyway? I doubt he's stealing all that money to spruce up the old homestead."

"No, but it's important for me to know. Talk him down." Bruce rubbed his jaw. "Bring him back to a normal life."

"I think it's a bit too late for that." Alfred moved a plate onto Bruce's lap. "Bon appetit."

Bruce cut and ate a small bite, then ran a rectangular magnifying glass over photocopies of the two Jacks and a picture of the Joker.

"Maybe there's just a little bit of hope left in Gotham."

Alfred knuckled the Joker's glossy. "Not for the likes of him… hang about!" He pulled a pen from his coat pocket and drew on Kinison's picture, overriding his tentative grin with a big, beaming _smile._ "Oh my word. It's him! Jack Kinison is the Joker!"

Bruce snatched the photo up. "That's impossible. Napier is the Joker. He was already a criminal genius, his accident just gave him a license to indulge…"

"They don't look alike. And it says here that Napier left Gotham…"

"He came back!" Bruce said, standing abruptly. "The chemicals deformed him. That's why he looks different. He's not a tragic victim of circumstance, he's a killer. Born and bred."

"That simple, is it?" Alfred jibed bitterly.

"Simpler. I catch him, I bury him, and we never see him again." Bruce started for the costume vault. "And I'm doing it right now."

"What happened to hope?" Alfred shouted after him. As Bruce angrily tugged on the costume, Alfred stayed with him. "How many times over the years have you assured me, _sworn_ to me, that this was about Gotham, not about your personal problems?"

"I know it won't bring my parents back, we've been over that…"

"I'm not talking about that, Bruce!"

Bruce stopped short at the use of his first name. He was in his armor up to his neck, cape draped over his arm, one eye blacked out with greasepaint.

Alfred kneaded his hands together. "Sometimes people are the way they are because of what the world makes of them."

"Not him."

"I'm asking about _you_."

Bruce rubbed at his other eye. It was just to smear make-up on it.

"I'm not supposed to be happy, Alfred. You should probably just accept it."

As if he had accepted it, though Bruce knew he hadn't, Alfred left. Batman looked between the two Jacks. One of them had the makings of a monster in him. Was it a good man, a family man, twisted by circumstance into something evil? Or had it just been Jack Napier, all along, using his deformity to take his war against society to the next level?

He felt a primal connection to the man one of them had become. As he'd been reborn by conquering the fear toxin, Joker had been created by succumbing to the chemicals that defaced him.

The Joker was Jack Napier, evil, not insane, knowing the difference between right and wrong but not caring.

And his parents' deaths hadn't been meaningless. They were events of fate, giving him the necessary understanding to save Gotham. Anything else just wouldn't make sense.

* * *

Even when the line was encrypted, Bruce waited for the hitch in the other man's breathing as realization came (the caller ID would say he was a cleaning company), waited for the terse "Bruce" that was not the question of Kent but the statement of Superman.

"You're not sounding so super." Bruce smiled at his own little joke. "Everything alright?"

"Just fine. I needed some rest and relaxation, that's all. What's up?"

"Kal," he said, "do you ever think about Krypton?"

The reply was as serious-minded as the question. Bruce pictured how Clark must look, jaw tightened, probably taking his glasses off to rub at his eyes or pinch the bridge of his nose. "You know I do."

"Do you ever think of how many people you've saved on Earth compared to how many died back home?"

"What are you talking about?"

Bruce sighed, then wheezed like he wanted to chuckle. "You shouldn't listen to me. I'm in the process of immunizing myself to a toxin and it's making me a bit… funny. But have you ever thought that hundreds of millions of people died to bring you to Earth, Clark? How many people will you have to save to make it all worthwhile?"

There was a long pause as Clark's throat constricted. "I don't think about that. It's in the past and you can't change the past."

Bruce persisted. "You would if you could though, right? That's why you went back to Krypton, _right?_" he spat bitterly. "Because you hate it here so much?"

"I don't--"

"That's alright, Kal. I hate it too… If you could meet the person you would've been, what do you think they would be like? Like, if you were just a run-of-the-mill Kryptonian scientist, do ya think you'd have time for a wife? Kids?"

"I'm just doing the best I can with the cards I was dealt." Clark's voice made it clear he was tired of this discussion.

But Bruce pressed on, an avalanche growing ever-larger as it descended. "I've thought about who I would've been… a better person than I am. There are things I've done… do… did that they wouldn't approve of. But things that need to be done. I can't… hit on what's more terrifying: If their deaths were for the greater good… a goddamn _beneficial act for the world_, Kal… or what if it really was pointless? What then?"

"Do you want me to come over?"

"Why? So you can leave again?" His father had had good taste in brandy. It burned just right when Bruce drank it. "Lois is just one woman. Stop trying to relive the past. Move on!"

"I'm trying. God knows it's not easy. But I am trying, Bruce."

"Tell me something. If you could do it all over again, would you stay with Lois?"

"…I'd tell her the truth. I'd tell her how I felt and… and who I am."

"You'd tell her you were Superman?"

"I'd tell her I was Clark Kent."

"But you're not. You're something else. Clark Kent is your indictment of your… responsibility, those people whose need took you from your father's side."

"You're wrong about me."

"I'm never wrong."

"Why'd you call, Bruce?" Clark's voice was rattled enough that even Bruce sensed it, in that undernourished part of his brain he devoted to sociality.

"I want to know if I ever had a chance, a choice." He'd confused the words. "And I did a preliminary analysis of your crime scene." It was so much easier to talk about that. He heard Clark audibly exhale. Bruce knew the feeling. "It's all about as you'd expect. Half burglary, half excavation… they probably camped here for months, although a precise timeline is hard to ascertain without better equipments."

The thought of Luthor desecrating 'Krypton's tomb' was enough to make Clark's breath rush angrily.

"But what surprised me is that despite making no secret of what they took in most cases – the crystals, some of the tech – they did create a fake piece of equipment to replace something they stole. Probably in the hopes that you wouldn't notice."

* * *

Clark's phone beeped. He checked it, seeing that Bruce had uploaded a picture of the phantom zone projector. Something that looked a lot like it, at least.

"Tell me, what does this do?"

* * *

Lex Luthor hung up his phone and though his smile might charitably be described as that of a mortician who loved his work, his preening had a touch more self-satisfaction to it. "Divers are combing the river now. We'll have the Kryptonite by morning. Corben won't be eating steak anytime soon, but he was always a write-off. Now, are you ready to come through with your end of the bargain?"

Zod stroked his goatee. "As soon as the son of Jor-El kneels."


End file.
